


bang.

by IHadHimOnTheRopes (CarterReid)



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angry Frank Castle, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Identity Issues, Identity Reveal, M/M, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Secret Identity, Self-Hatred, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 07:06:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16192574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarterReid/pseuds/IHadHimOnTheRopes
Summary: Soulmates were for children. They were nothing more than fairy-tales that filled movie screens and the pages of books; and Hell's Kitchen, with its blood, violence and screaming, was too far from Hollywood for the fantasy to be real. Matt knew he'd never meet his other half. He knew they'd be better off without him. He knew this, wholeheartedly.Until, of course, he didn't.





	1. one-man army

**Author's Note:**

> New pairing for me, but I've loved them for a while, so hopefully this goes okay - especially as this has been floating around my hard drive for a year and I was unsure whether to run with it... ah, you guys be the judge.
> 
> I don't own any of these amazing characters, worlds or Marvel Verses (although I'm crossing my fingers for a kick-ass Christmas present) so rights to Stan Lee, Marvel and every incredible person involved.
> 
> A little bit of actual dialogue will be dotted around, but this is mostly an AU, so it won't be much.
> 
> As always, lots of love for you all,  
> -R.

Matt had never given much thought to the word on his wrist: the black, scrawling, chicken-scratch that carved out much more than the word  _bang_ , but his future too. His father said what all parents say to the children: that it was the mark of his Soulmate, the other half of his soul – the one person who would make him the happiest boy in the world.

But life took a sharp turn when he was nine, and well, his soulmate never really crossed his mind after that. He focused his attentions on things he could control; on things more tangible than fairy-tales.

So he found something that he liked doing. He rescued people. He _saved_ people. In the day, he donned a suit and glasses, let people pay him with chickens and three portions of lasagne, and told the world that everyone deserved the best defence they could, no matter creed, culture, convictions or capital, everyone deserved a chance for their voices to be heard. Everyone deserved a shot a redemption. When that didn’t work, he folded up his cane, shucked out of his suit, and he let the devil out, just like his Dad used to do.

And it worked. 

It worked right up until the heatwave broke over Hell’s Kitchen, swathing the streets in sweat and the dank smell of the subway that burst up through the vents. The trash, sitting idle on the street, rotted under the sun, adding a foul bitterness to dry air. They always said that heat made people mad and Matt never realised how right they were until Frank Castle rolled into town.

A shootout with the Irish and suddenly their lives were overwhelming, incomprehensively, brutally entwined. Blood, glass, grime and the half-stench of death, it was a shit storm – and that was before the meatpacking warehouse, the silent breath of: “ _Him_ ”, which cut through Matt like a knife. He’d felt gutted to his core at the very _idea_ of a man who could do such a thing, the prospect of facing him came with an uncontrollable rage and a rather fervent fear. What would he do about the Devil, Matt had wondered, and was this his fate should he go up against him? He had little time, though, because suddenly he was on a roof-top, gunshots sounding and Karen’s screaming ringing in Matt’s ear as people dove for cover. The sudden blow of flesh on flesh as they grappled, punched and kicked at each other, each clawing for an advantage. But the man was tough – tougher than anyone Matt had met – with fists that rattled every molecule in his body and made the dizzying sight of the man on the hook swim beneath his eyes. He may have been the man-without-fear, but there was something fearful about this one-man army that terrified him.

When he heard the click, Matt felt every hair on his body stand up, a chill cascading down his spine and his stomach dropped to his feet. He smelt blood on the man before him, knew his lips were curved into some bright, manic smile because there was blood in between his teeth and on his tongue, which was half out as he drew in a breath. Matt was panting himself, a sensation gripping him he couldn’t explain. It was heady and violent – it almost felt like being drunk. There was a second, maybe even a minute, Matt wasn’t sure before the man half inhaled.

Then:

" ** _Bang_**."

Matt had barely a second to register the significance of that word and of just what it meant, before he was falling backwards off the roof, the ground rushing up to meet him. His last thought that that man, the murdering criminal who had butchered men like they were nothing but meat sacks, was his soulmate. 

Matt wasn't sure how long he spent unconscious, swimming in the dark recess of his mind, before the despairing cries of Foggy broke through to him. His best friend holding his head in his lap and pleading for Matt to awaken, helping him stumble home via back-alleys when he finally gained some control over his limbs. But while every inch of him hurt, it was the scruffy, black word on the inside of his wrist that burned the worst. It felt like his whole arm was on fire, but he ignored it and kept the word out of Foggy’s sight as well as he could while numbly answering questions on the _what_ and _why_ of the previous night. His words felt almost too complimentary: _fast_ , _good_ , _trained_ – and Foggy’s eyebrows were raised, he was sure – but he couldn’t help it. He might not like what his soulmate was, but the man was his soulmate, and that was a fact. Something irrefutable. And the idea of letting the police deal with him? - that made a violent, heavy panic rise from his stomach into his chest and slowly clasp at his heart. He couldn’t,  **couldn’t** let anyone else bring the guy in. There was no way.

No. Way.

So Matt argued with Foggy, as he always did, and let his best friend walk out the door, slamming it behind him for good measure, leaving him alone with thoughts he didn't particularly want to indulge in. There were so many things. So many  _problems_ that he now faced. Part of him wished he'd never heard the word...but a small part of him was so thrilled he finally had.  Soulmates were so rare. There were never any guarantees, which is why they played host to some of the most beautiful stories. Notoriously feeble, tricky,  _fragile_ things, to meet your Soulmate, someone had to pick all the right decisions - they only existed in  _one-possible-future_. The world, therefore, would say that Matt was blessed. An incredibly lucky and precious individual that had been given the joy of another half. 

He didn't know what to think, or how to feel. He'd never given much thought to it,  _after_. Sometimes he might catch himself tracing the word - to him, a symbol of what might have been had he not been blinded and taken up the moniker of the devil. After all, what possible person was destined for _Daredevil_? At first, Matt had hoped Electra. Then, the normalcy of a person like Karen. He'd entertained the possibility of men, of course, but somehow he'd always thought he'd lost the one destined for him when he ran out into the road. 

His mind was still turning when his hearing stopped. Suddenly, his soulmate was nothing more than a footnote because panic laced his blood and flooded every system he had. Then he was screaming. He'd never felt so blind and helpless, fumbling like a child in the dark desperate for their parents, and Matt had never wanted his Father so  _badly_ than in that moment.  

He knew, logically, that he should blame the shooter,  _his_ shooter, because there was no way the bullet he took in the head wasn’t the cause of his sudden deafness. But he couldn't. He couldn't. So instead, he screamed himself hoarse, slamming his hands against cold brick until his heart slowed enough for him to settle and just wait it out, hands wrapped tightly around himself, because he couldn’t let this be permanent. “ _Who would want you then? Blind and deaf_?” a crude part of himself asked, the words leaving a bitter taste in the back of his throat. " _If you're not Daredevil, then what use are you?_ ". It was true, he knew. Matt always knew he was a freak, different, broken in a way, but there was nothing more frightening then having it confirmed to him. His disability wasn’t limiting, he could be more, but when all he knew, all the more he was had suddenly gone? He was just an empty, panicking husk of a man who feared God too much and the law too little. 

When it passed, something even more unsettling took its place: _Karen_. Not twenty-four hours ago, Matt was sure he would have liked her presence; with her wide eyes and soft voice, she was pretty in that normal, mundane, nine-to-five sense. But now? Now it was like sandpaper on his skin. It made him feel wrong, aching in places he didn't even know were real, because there was nothing but  _him_. But while her prying and her gentle flirting grated on his ears, she gave him a name: a moniker.

**The Punisher.**

His soulmate was called The Punisher, and Matt was certain that there had never been a crueller twist of fate. After so long fighting evil on the streets of Hell’s Kitchen and tearing himself apart with guilt over it all, for his soulmate to wear _that_ name, was overwhelming. After being so desperate for a sign to show he would be forgiven for his actions, Matt wished he'd never asked. How ironic, he thought. Even more ironic than a Catholic named The Devil. He had never been more entrenched in guilt and confusion than in the moment when Karen uttered those words. Was that, Matt thought, a sign to stop? - or to leave his Soulmate to do what he intended to: to punish? Or was this the cross he had to bear for his actions? - a murderer to complete what little soul he had left?

Karen had been talking before she finally left: about Daredevil and Punisher and saying things he just didn’t-want-to-hear – he just wanted out. He wanted to be near the man again, to see, to know, just what he had done, to try and understand his soulmate, because he couldn’t yet. There was too much blood and gore in between the pair of them for true appreciation of what made his man The Punisher. There had to be something underneath the angry and the mania. _There had to_. 

Maybe he was desperate, clutching at straws, or fitting together pieces that had no business being in the same puzzle together, let alone side by side, but somehow he knew he had to try. But soulmate or not soulmate, there was no way Matt was letting the guy kill another person. So he pulled on the suit, his hastily fixed cowl and clambered out over rooftops.

Then, more screaming. Bullets were flying and  _shit_ , he had to get him out of the way of the bullets, but he was still coming, still fighting and not taking no for an answer.

_…glass and pain and so much anger, shouts, police chatter…_

_…metal, cold chains and the faint smell of coffee and blood…_

“Morning sunshine.”

And words, so many words. He couldn't hear them all, but the voice was unmistakable:  **him**.

 **Him** , giving Matt a name:  _Red_. It suited him, Matt thought. Better Red than Daredevil. Better Red than Matt. When he was Red, he was anyone. And right at that moment, with his better half boasting about shooting him in the head, he wanted to be anyone. He wanted to be anyone but Matt Murdock, who was bound to a lunatic. 

“Why didn’t you take my mask off?”

Matt could hear the stutter in his heartbeat; hear the way his lungs filled with too much air and his throat closed. The way his veins to his heart opened wide, the blood surging through as though he’d been given a shot of adrenaline…Matt knew then that those words were printed on the inside of the man’s wrist, the same way  _bang_  was on his own.

It took a moment before he composed himself and cleared his throat. “Don’t give a shit about who you are,” he replied, heartbeat flat. He wasn’t lying. He fell silent; ignoring the probing questions, ignoring him, Matt, Daredevil,  _Red_ – and the lawyer was sure that his heart broke at that: Punisher indeed.

“ ** _Stop_** ,” he eventually spat, rounding on Matt like a cornered dog. “Stop it, Red,  _fuck_ ,” he was shaking his head, hands tightening into fists, eager to hit something but hesitating slightly at just lashing out at the bound man.

“You can stop this,” Matt whispered, pleading and desperate himself. “Nobody else has to get hurt. Just walk away,” he heaved in a breath. “Don’t make me come after you…because I will,” he swore, pinning The Punisher, pinning  _Frank_ , to the spot with his heavy, red-lens gaze, "I will."

"I only do what I have to," he retorted, stance strong and frame broad. "And ain't no one gonna stop me, Red," Frank paused, tongue clicking, "least of all a half measure like you." 

And that hurt. Matt knew he'd never been good at dealing with hurt. So he proceeded to do exactly what his best friend said he did: beat the shit out of strangers.

After all, his soulmate was right... people couldn't pick the things that fixed them. 


	2. the punisher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own any of this world, so all rights to their proper places, thanks.  
> Thanks for the comments and kudos so far, you guys are awesome.  
> Hopefully I'm doing this new pair justice - if not then definitely shout with criticisms or anything! I'd love to hear comments etc.!  
> Thank you muchly, and much love, always.  
> -R.

Matt had been more than just a little determined in his avoidance of The Punisher. Of course he couldn't ignore the man entirely; they seemed to end up foiling each other's plans every other night, especially with Frank becoming more and more active and gaining both police attention and a fearsome reputation that rivalled The Devil's and Wilson Fisk's combined. Hell's Kitchen was running scared and even the police were dumbfounded how to deal with the situation. How could they catch a man no one could match? He had gained the supporting cries of the scared, the victims and the oppressed - they spoke of Frank Castle like a guardian angel - and the criminals hid themselves away, shivering with fear in alleyways where they had previously gone to prowl. They cursed Frank, but could do nothing about it. The Punisher was like smoke: barely visible, fleeting and uncatchable, but potentially deadly. It seemed the only one pro-actively stopping his rampage was the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. But while Daredevil dove into the situation, kicking the Punisher's rifle away or throwing his club at Frank's hand as he raised his handgun to execute some low-level drug dealer, their trousers swimming in piss as they pleaded for their life, Matt Murdock stayed as far from Castle as he could. Matt Murdock was the one with the Soulmate, after all, and he was dogged in his determination not to address the elephant on the rooftop. 

Frank, it seemed, felt the same way.

He felt so strongly about it, in fact, that he often chose to shoot at his Soulmate rather than speak to him. It was a pair of strategies that Matt knew were bound for implosion, although he wasn't expecting Karen to be at the centre of it. It was quite possibly the last thing Matt expected after a relatively quiet night's patrol, when he was woken to an urgent, panicked banging on his front door. 

It was early - no later than six, with the sun barely breaching the horizon - and he was sluggish to react, still half in a dream filled with blood and gore. Another heavy, desperate thud, and Matt picked out two heartbeats. One, he was sure, was Karen, while the other was slow, sluggish - a man. An  _injured_ man. He opened the door slowly, feeling incredibly vulnerable in his loose t-shirt and lounge pants despite the abilities that rested underneath his skin.

All that faded when he inhaled. 

" _Matt_ ," Karen hissed, moving inside and pulling the injured man bodily behind her. She unceremoniously pushed Matt backwards and he stumbled: partly for show and partly because he wasn't expecting her to be so physical with him. " _Shit,_ " she cursed, noticing her actions and hesitating, eager to help him but torn between continuing further into the apartment. A wet, half inhale made the decision for her and instead, she shut the door with her foot and dragged the injured man to the couch. 

She dragged  _Frank_ to the couch. 

Matt took a shaky inhale, tasting the air a second, a _third,_ a  **fourth** time, because that was  _definitely_ his Soulmate. He cleared his throat before: "Karen," he asked, letting a little of the panic he was feeling creep into his tone, "what's going on? Is someone with you?"

"Is he blind?" Frank asked bluntly, slurring just enough to indicate he'd lost a lot of blood and was probably not fully aware of what was going on. 

" _Karen?!"_ Matt knew his voice was climbing through the octaves, but he was on the verge of a panic attack. Part of him wanted to scream, because Matt had been avoiding the man before him; the other part felt like ripping every limb of the people who had done this because his Soulmate was spitting up blood in his apartment. 

"I'm sorry, Matt," she pleaded, tears beginning to prick her eyes, "I didn't know where to go." 

"Karen," he snapped again, trying to keep his rampant emotions in check. He felt unstable; they swinging from desperate concern to fury before landing squarely in panic and cycling back again. _Shit_ , he thought,  _this fear for your other half is worse than they tell you it is_. And it really, really was. 

The woman hesitated, hand clutching tightly onto the first-aid kit she'd pulled from underneath his sink. Matt crossed his arms, partly to stop himself from reaching out to either smack or hold the man lay five feet from him, because it was becoming incredibly difficult to pretend when it was his Soulmate half sprawled, bleeding out, on his couch. "It's Frank Castle," she finally said and Matt let his mouth open as he deflated. 

"The Punisher? The  _Punisher_?!" Matt replied before taking a deep, long breath in, settling himself so he could focus his attention on tracking Frank's heartbeat. "Have you forgotten I'm a fucking _lawyer_ , Karen?"

"You brought me to a lawyer's place?" the man snorted, chuckling weakly. 

Matt ignored him before taking a deliberate sniff. "I smell blood, is that him?"

"Yeah," Karen said, voice wobbling, dabbing at the man's wounds insufficiently, but Frank wasn't clear-headed enough to stitch the wound himself. 

" _Fuck_ ," Matt cursed. "Where's he bleeding?" Gunshot, shoulder, by the flow of his blood. Fractured wrist and he'd clearly done a number on his leg - glass was embedded in the tissue and there something else on his thigh bleeding too. What the hell had he been doing? And how the hell did Karen find him?  _He'd lose his shit if they were together_ , he thought.  

"Shoulder, leg and arm," Karen rattled off, voice high and breathy, hands nervously fluttering over the injuries. " _Shit,_ I-I can't stitch," she confessed, "I mean, I did sewing, but wounds...but he-he can't go to a h-hospital," she hiccupped, "oh I-I don't-"

"I can do it," The Punisher insisted, reaching for the thread. Matt almost snarled at him. 

"Shut up," he hissed instead before slowly sitting beside him, almost straddling his leg so he was close enough to assess, and repair, the damage. "Karen get the scissors from the kitchen and the vodka from underneath the sink, and pass me the thread." She hurried off, pressing the needle and thread into his hand.

"How the fuck you going stitch me up, blind boy?" Frank snorted, shifting away before snarling at the pain. Matt almost slapped him. When Karen came running back he directed her to Frank's shoulder, told her to hold pressure there, tight, while he dealt with the man's leg. He cut off what remained on his trousers, took one swig of the vodka to steady his nerves, before he poured half the bottle over his Soulmate. The Punisher growled, furious, but immediately Matt was working, fingers nimbly pulling glass free, stitching and bandaging what he could as he went. It was gruelling work, with the only sounds the slick of his fingers through blood, Frank's pained half gasps and Karen's occasional whimpers. When he'd finally finished on Frank's leg, he moved to his shoulder, seating himself in the man's lap so he could clean and dress the wound without making the man move. The uptick in Frank's heart took Matt a minute to adjust to before he began. By the time he was ready to splint and wrap Frank's wrist, the regular bustle of New York was thrumming outside, settling into a familiar rhythm of sirens and horns that began to fill Matt's ears. 

Neither Frank nor Karen had said a word, although their breathing suggested they'd both been tempted to several times during the process. When he clambered free of Frank, content that nothing was bleeding, externally or internally, he stepped away, simply moved to the other couch and collapsed onto it face first.

"Huh," the Punished muttered, half amused, eyes pinned to Matt's form. "Your boyfriend did an alright job, Karen," Frank chuckled, although he was still clearly weak. 

"He's not -"

"I'm not -" They both stopped, Matt shaking his head into the couch cushion. There was a pause.

"Thank you Matt," Karen said, moving around to  _touch him_ ,  _pat him_? - Matt wasn't sure, although he sensed when she changed her mind, instead lingering on the edges. 

A sigh was building in Matt's chest and he rolled onto his back. "Go into the office Karen," he ordered, "act normally. Tell Foggy I'm not well and don't say a word to anyone. Your clothes," he could smell the blood stains on the shirt she was wearing, "if they're bloody, then burn them."

"Matt -" she protested. 

"I'm not going to turn him in Karen," Matt scowled, "but you shouldn't be involved." She went to protest again, spluttering indignities. "And," Matt cut in sharply, "if anyone were to discover this, it would be best that the blind, sometimes clumsy man had a couple of alibis, right?" He glared in her general direction. "I'll stay here and play nurse until this asshole's ready to walk his sorry ass out of my apartment without bleeding over the floor." His tone left no room for argument, but still Karen tried. Eventually Frank chimed in. 

"It's all good here, Ma'am," he said with a smile, turning on the charm to a hundred. She hesitated but eventually Karen nodded and left, but only after announcing she'd be back later. 

Then it was just the two of them. 

"You going to punch me, sunshine?" Frank snorted, laughter breaking the silence. "You look like ya might."

"Don't call me that," Matt ordered, ignoring the pull in his chest to go and curl up by his Soulmate's side.

"Alright then, Murdock," he said, smirking as Matt turned sharply, the question of how the hell he knew his name perched on his lips, "You're a lawyer, Murdock, and ya work with Karen," he snorted, "I ain't stupid." Matt scowled. 

There was another silence. Then:

"How'd ya know how to patch me up?"

Matt ignored him before sighing. There was no real harm in this. "My Dad was a boxer," he began quietly. "He lost a lot."

"Huh." A pause. "Pretty skilled though, considering."

"Considering what?" he replied, voice tight. "That my eyes don't work? There are plenty of other ways to see,  _Castle_."

"I didn't mean-"

"Doesn't matter," he rasped, growing tired.

There was a long, heavy silence which Matt spent listening the steady  _thump-thump_ of Frank's heart. There was an intake of breath before: "You single, Murdock?"

"I don't see what that has to do with anything," he responded, drowsy.

"Just makin' conversation."

Matt heaved in a breath, reigning in the warring emotions rising within him. "No, I'm not seeing anyone."

"Huh."

Another silence.

"Why?" the lawyer prompted, curious. 

"Would'a thought a pretty guy like you'd have the ladies hangin' off your every word," the marine replied with a snort. 

"I'd prefer it be the guys," Matt shot back, ignoring the startled inhale that anyone else would have missed. Frank's heart skipped in his chest. 

"Gay?"

"Bi," he corrected. 

"Huh. Karen sure seems t' like ya. She looks at you all doe-eyed."

"Wouldn't know," Matt replied, a little too sarcastically if the way Frank's head turned was anything to go by. "Besides, she's not my type."

"And what would be your type?"

There was a moment of silence, Matt not sure if he should reply, but he found himself unable to deny Frank anything when it came to this.  _Fucking Soulmates._  

"Kind," he murmured, "passionate, loyal, brave, patient, funny," he paused before smirking, "and of course, easy on the eyes."

Frank laughed at that. "Ah well Murdock, good luck, I don't think there's anyone out there with all those qualities now-a-days."

"I did meet someone," Matt replied, unable to help himself, "he could have been all of that, I'm sure. But he doesn't have it in him to try. He won't ever care for me like that. In fact, I don't think he even gave me a second thought."

"How'd you know?"

"Because he rejected me," the vigilante whispered, "after I said the words on his wrist."

There was a sharp, violent inhale and the tension in the room doubled. The air was suddenly charged and heavy, anger lacing the molecules. There were rules, expectations about Soulmates, and Frank's actions violated almost all of them. To confess what he had done out loud was voicing the taboo he had committed. If their interaction were within normal society, Frank would've been ostracised and persecuted for his dismissal of Matt. 

"You met your soulmate?" finally came the hushed question.

"Yeah," Matt nodded, dragging a hand through his hair. "I did. He said mine and I said his and he  _knew_ , I knew he knew, but... nothing, he didn't - I mean..." Emotions were crawling up the back of his throat and threatening to overwhelm him. 

"Guy's an idiot," Frank said gruffly, awkwardly, as though he wanted to be anywhere else. No doubt he did. It must be hard for Frank to dismiss actions he himself had committed.  

"He was scared, I think," Matt muttered.

"Scared or not, no one should ever just walk away from their other half after that. I mean, no excuse,  _none_."

Matt huffed out a laugh, incredulous at the statement. "Don't blame him, really," he scowled, almost to himself, "after all, I'm all kinds of fucked up."

Frank made a noise that was halfway between a surprised whimper and raged snarl, clearly stunned at the words, but Matt was suddenly bone weary and far too tired to continue the conversation. He stood abruptly, moving to the side and pulling a blanket from the cupboard before walking it over to Frank. "Don't get up without help, you'll tear your stitches, and I don't need you bleeding out on my floor" he ordered, voice unyielding. "You need the bathroom then shout, otherwise I'm going to bed for an hour." And with that he turned on his heel and stalked away, painfully aware that Frank's eyes followed his every step.


	3. castle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Marvel, Daredevil or The Punisher, so rights to their amazing, official people pleases and thank-yous, 
> 
> Thank you for the comments my lovelies, its nice to know I haven't butchered these guys! (yet, lol). 
> 
> Be well and all,  
> -R.

When he woke Matt could immediately hear the steady  _thump-thump_ of Frank's heart. It was strong and, in a way, reassuring. There was little sign of the strain it had been under several hours previously and something akin to relief washed through Matt's body. 

The warmth radiating through the half-open curtains told him it was at the height of the day - probably as late as one o'clock - meaning he'd been sleeping for more than just an hour, but the ache in his joints and the steady pressure behind his eyes spoke volumes of how tired he still was. He rose groggily, throwing back his covers and stumbling into the bathroom with almost no grace. After he'd relieved himself and cleaned up, he walked out into the living room. Matt found he was itching to check the stitches for any sign of infection, irritation or tearing, even though he couldn't smell the fresh blood that would indicate something had happened during his nap. It might have been driven, in part, by the desire to run his hands over his Soulmate's body - everyone knew touch was a big part of establishing and reaffirming the bond between a pair...not to mention it gave him a way to map out the features of the man before him. It would be nice to have some sort of image in his mind other than the blurred, fiery visage that his heightened senses gave him. 

Frank was breathing out steadily, body grateful for the reprieve as his cells knitted together his skin and patched up the holes that had perforated him, but a soft, half-snort sounded as Matt gingerly inched his fingers over the first of the many wounds. The snuffing noise would have been inherently sweet were Matt not still so conflicted about having the man before him as his Soulmate. He hadn't lied when he'd told Frank that his other half had the capacity for good. Despite everything the man had done, he had seen The Punisher's goodness regardless of how desperately he tried to hide it, and it was for perhaps that reason that he was even more angry at their situation. His leg was still incredibly swollen and bloody, but the stitches were holding well. His wrist was much as it had been hours ago, although somehow Frank had dislodged the splint just enough that Matt had to carefully correct it. He had moved onto checking his shoulder when he felt Frank's breathing change and his muscles tense beneath him just enough to tell him he was awake. It was a moment before the Punisher's eyes opened but Matt didn't react, carefully moving, checking the wounds with a feather-light touch, even when eyes began to bore into the side of his head. His shoulder looked a little worse for wear, so Matt fumbled behind him for the antiseptic and rubbing alcohol, running his fingers down to check the braille before reaching for a pair of cotton pads. He soaked one through before returning it to Frank's shoulder, gently wiping away as much of the grime as he could and pressing on the stitches which were a little too wet with pus for Matt's liking. While the man beneath him made no sound, nor did he move, his heart picked up, thundering away in his chest as Matt worked. The lawyer wasn't exactly sure what to make of it - only that Frank seemed to just as affected, just as drawn to him, as Matt was to him; although the former marine was clearly perplexed as to why. When he was reasonably satisfied, he switched out to the dressing, re-taping it with automatic movements. His finger clearly pressed on a bruise before a low groan breathed out between Frank's lips. It could just have easily been made while sleeping though so Matt didn't react, instead speaking almost to himself.

"Easy Castle," he muttered softly, "you're alright." There was a long steadying breath before his inhales and exhales became more regular. "There you go," Matt murmured. "It's all fine," he whispered, hand smoothing over the injured skin with tenderness. The longer they were together, the more difficult it was to ignore the growing demand in his chest to be with his other half. It would only get worse, he knew. Proximity and touch were the two more important things for mated pairs.

It took a moment but eventually he pulled himself away, standing and groaning slightly at the creaks in his shoulders and knees, before picking up the dirty pads and moving into the kitchen to toss them into the bin. Frank's eyes followed him as he moved, but still Matt didn't react. The gaze may have been unwavering and bordering on unblinking, but if there was any doubt in Castle's mind about his  _other_ identity, Matt wasn't going to be the one to encourage the thoughts. Instead he began pulling what little food he had out of the fridge and cupboards, fixing up a couple of sandwiches to stave off the sudden ravenous hunger that was gnawing at his stomach as well as making a spare because there were the beginnings of hunger stirring in Frank too. Matt was quiet, he knew, but the clatter of cutlery felt loud nevertheless. He had taken all but three bites before his phone rang, breaking the tentative peace. 

" _Foggy. Foggy. Foggy._ " It shouted and Matt stumbled over, answering it quickly, as though worried about waking Frank, but also because Foggy calling him couldn't have been good. 

"Foggy?" he asked, voice tentative.

" _Matt_!" Foggy exclaimed, voice layered with both relief and anger. " _What the hell are you thinking_?"  _Ah, shit_ , he thought,  _Karen **had** told him_. 

"Foggy," he tried. 

" _No, Matt_ ," the man barked in reply, " _this guy_ _ **shot you in the head**_ ," he hissed, quietly enough to assure Matt that even if Frank had been hovering over his shoulder, he wouldn't have heard the comment. 

"Look Foggy, I know, alright? It's not exactly my ideal day either," he exhaled, exhausted of the conversation already. "But what was I going to do? Leave him bleeding in the hallway?"

" _Yes Matt_ ," Foggy cussed, " _he's a_ _ **psychopath**_!" A pause. " _I don't care what Karen thinks she knows, but leaving the Punisher in your apartment is_ _ **asking**_ _for trouble!_ "

"Karen's just trying to help, Fog," Matt placated. 

" _When he finds out your Daredevil, he's going to put a bullet in your head_!"

Matt snorted. "Again," he muttered, unable to help himself.

" _God damn it Matt_ ," the lawyer shouted, voice really rising now, " _this isn't funny! He's deranged!_ "

"Foggy,  _Foggy,_ come on? I know, alright? I know how dangerous this is. I know Castle could shoot me or snap my neck or  _whatever_. Okay, I know. But he's still a person Fog. He's still a  _person_ ," he insisted, suddenly becoming acutely aware of Frank's gaze once more. He'd almost forgotten the man was awake, actually. "And everyone deserves a chance to -"

" _If you say redeem themselves, so help me Matt, **I'll** shoot you,_ " he snapped. " _Just call the police, let them handle it._ "

"You know I can't do that Foggy," Matt replied, voice turning just a touch colder than he wanted it to. They'd already  _had_ this conversation - admittedly it had gone as well as he expected it to - and he didn't want a replay. 

" _Yes you can. Come on, Matt. You don't have to do this_." There was a long silence, once where Matt found himself turning, staring at the space Frank occupied and aware that he was no doubt meeting the man's gaze. " _I'll call them then_ ," Foggy eventually muttered. 

" **No,** " Matt hissed. "Don't," he smirked cynically then, smile feeling icy on his features. "Besides," he added, voice chilled, "do you really want to send police to my apartment, Fog?"

A long, heavy pause settled around them. 

" _I sure hope you've got some god damn clue as to what you're doing Matt,_ " Foggy snarled, " _because I'm not going to drag you over any more rooftops or fish you out of dumpsters when you're half dead, alright?"_

Then he hung up.

"Shit," Matt swore, anger swelling inside him. He wanted to be out on the streets, suddenly, forcing his fist into bones and flesh, feeling them break and veins burst beneath his hands.  _One bad day away from being Frank indeed,_ he thought. 

"You alright Murdock...?" Frank's voice startled him and he jumped just a little, not prepared for the sound. 

The man took a steadying breath in. "How much of that did you hear?" he finally asked. 

A wry chuckle before: "Not much."  _God damn liar,_ Matt thought. "But I heard enough to know you think I'm going to hurt ya." There was an undercurrent of concern lacing Frank's tone - something he'd heard maybe once before, and made him feel fluttery in his own skin. 

"You do like to kill people," Matt replied wryly, dropping his phone onto the counter with a sigh. 

A half inhale, surprised but also worried too. "I don't go 'round killin' just anyone, Murdock," he retorted. "Especially not pretty lawyers who patch me up after a gunfight."

 _Pretty lawyers. Pretty lawyers. Pretty lawyers_. Fuck, this man messed with his head. 

"Don't get used to it," he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. 

Frank huffed out a laugh. "Wasn't going to," he replied before sobering, "but I mean it. Ya ain't in no danger from me, Blue Eyes."

Something weird settled under his skin then as he became acutely aware of his lack of shades and just how intimate that made their conversation. But there was also the overwhelming sense of affection that bloomed too, because his Soulmate, his _Soulmate_ , had just looked at his unseeing eyes and named their colour. He'd looked past the milky white and  _seen_ , and he'd addressed it so casually, with no hint of disgust (that he had often heard from Electra) or pity (that sometimes Karen projected) or even unease (which Foggy had struggled with from time to time). No, Frank just saw eyes and that warmed him a little. It seemed he was right: there was something kind beneath the Punisher, like he thought.

"Uh, thanks," Matt eventually managed, throat a little closed. Frank shifted on the settee, breath shifting slightly and Matt sensed a vein of discomfort. "You uh, need the bathroom or anything?" he guessed.

Frank hesitated. "Yeah, actually," he finally muttered, trying to sit up but hissing just a little. Matt hurried over, hands helping to ease him up slowly. "If you don't mind, Blue."

 _Blue_? "Uh, no," the lawyer replied, offering a hand and letting the Punisher sink most of his weight into him. His hand wrapped around the ex-marine's waist to steady him but the man's heart rate jumped as though electrocuted. "It's just through there," he mumbled, helping walk Frank through to the bathroom, keeping a careful focus on his injuries to ensure he wasn't pulling anything. They hesitated when they got there though because it was clear Frank could barely stand on his own but was reluctant to just start taking a piss. Matt almost smiled. "I promise I won't peak," he said, smiling properly when Frank snorted loudly at the words. He did turn his back though, giving some semblance of privacy, before assisting him to the sink and then finally back to the couch. 

"Thanks Blue," he muttered as he resettled, leg coming up to rest on the arm of the couch. 

"Blue?" Matt finally said aloud.  _What was it with Frank and naming him with colours...?_

"Blue Eyes,  _Blue_ ," he clarified, but offered nothing further. Matt shrugged, just rolling with it, before offering him a sandwich and settling on the floor to eat his own. 

"You always been blind?" Frank asked after a few moments. 

 _Huh_. "No," the man replied, curious as to the sudden change in thought process. "I lost my sight when I was nine."

"That must be tough. Ya know. Seeing colours and everything, then not seeing them."

"Yes, and no. I miss it sometimes, but I've been blind for longer than I've not been blind. This is more normal than colour would be."

"Uh huh." Another pause and the sound of chewing. "Only child?"

"Yep," Matt hesitated, "you?"

Frank huffed out a laugh. "Only one, yeah."

"Any family?" 

The mood darkened. "Not anymore Blue," he replied. There was loss there. 

Part of Matt wanted to say he was sorry, to take it back, but part of him knew that wouldn't be appreciated. "It that why?"

Frank looked up, surprised. "Why...?"

"Why you're the Punisher?"

"In part," he confessed. "Ain't nothin' a man won't do to get revenge when he's held his baby girl in his arms as she bleeds out."

" _Shit_ ," Matt whispered before he could stop himself. Frank managed a laugh, but it was cold and haunting. 

"I know, right?"

"All of them, at once?" Matt risked the question, but he already knew the answer. Frank seemed like the kind of person that would rally around to protect the rest of his family rather than spiral into a killing spree. 

"Wife and two kids," he nodded, "shoot out with some gang-fucks trying to make a deal. I don't know."

Suddenly a lot of things came into focus. "The Irish, the Mexican Cartel -"

"And the Dogs of Hell," Frank finished for him, half a smile on his face.

Matt crossed himself, almost automatically, his mind tumbling as he reconciled the Punisher with Frank Castle. Frank's laughter kept his attention though. "You religious, Blue?"

"Catholic," Matt replied. 

Frank chuckled. "Seems everyone in this town's Catholic," he snorted, and Matt knew _exactly_ who he was thinking of. "I ain't sure I wanna believe in Him anymore, ya know? Seems like he turned His back on me a long time ago..." There was a pause. "She wasn't my Soulmate, my wife," he continued, almost as though he were talking to himself. "She  _should_ have been. I loved her so much, Blue, it was like burning up, and the kids, hell they were perfect. I can't say how perfect they were. I never thought they were in danger here? I mean me? Iraq, Afghanistan, getting shot at in the middle of the fucking desert, that was where the danger was... But havin' a picnic in the park? How'd ya square that?"

"You can't," Matt breathed, heart  _breaking_ at the words his Soulmate was saying. 

"Damn right ya can't. Ain't nothin' but goodness supposed to be home, but  _fuck_ , just mindin' our own business..." he trailed off. "Took a bullet the head, too," he said, pointing, as though unaware Matt was blind, "and I thought thank  _fuck_ because I'd be goin' with them. Then I wake up. I. Wake. Up. Can't even die right, Blue," he laughs again, words becoming almost rambling as he kept talking and talking. Part of Matt was stunned that Frank was willingly sharing his past, but in a way it made sense. Who else would the man feel most comfortable with than his other half? Not to mention he'd no doubt been carrying the story on his shoulders like a oppressive weight. He was probably desperate to talk about it. Desperate to vent, to yell, to cry - and Matt was probably the first person who was listening. "And then I'm this," Frank continued, something bitter in his tone, "I'm 'The Punisher'," he heaved in a heavy breath. "And then that punk-ass fool in red- _fucking-_ pyjamas says my  _fucking words_." 

Matt froze, stunned, because he hadn't expected Frank to talk about that. To talk about _him_. To admit to being so intrinsically bound to him. And to do so with such casual  **venom**. 

"The Devil of Hell's Kitchen," Frank mocked, voice cruel and snide. "You know him, right?" Matt nods dumbly, not trusting his voice. "He said my words. I must'a said his. Don't even remember what I said. But he says 'em and suddenly I've got this punk-ass, trying to teach me morals, telling me I'm wrong, as my Soulmate." He paused, breathing heavily now. "And ya know what hurts the most, Blue? Is that this shit, all this Soulmate  _bullshit_ , is crazy fickle, right? Only one possible future, isn't that what they say? So I'm in this one possible future." Another pause, voice dropping to almost dangerous. "So my kids had to die for me to meet this fuckin' _Daredevil_ ," he spits the word. "What kinda Soulmate is that, eh Blue? What kinda Soulmate must he be? I mean, how'd ya square that? How'd ya square the universe telling me this guy is worth the lives of my wife and kids?"

The vigilante swallowed heavily. "You don't," he breathed. 

"That's right," Frank snarled, "you don't. I mean, I was raised right. I was raised that ya Soulmate is the one, I know. And what yours did to you was a fucking disgrace, Blue, cos your a good guy. Fuck knows whats wrong with him. But how the fuck am I supposed to think about  _Daredevil_ as anything other than the reason my kids are six feet under...?"

 _Oh. God._ Matt's heart was racing and there were tears in the back of his throat. "I don't think you can," he croaked. 

"I know," Frank muttered, calming just a little, "I won't ever think anythin' else, really." He paused, drawing in a long, steadying breath. "I mean, how can the big-guy upstairs justify that? He abandoned me, Blue, an' why the fuck should I not abandon him right back?"  

"Hope?" Matt whispered, voice cracking. 

"Fuck hope, Murdock," he snorted, shaking his head, ranting now. "Ain't got no time for hope. I mean, what have I got to be hopeful for? Some lunatic runnin' 'round like a kid on Halloween? Nah. Ain't nothin' hopeful 'bout the Devil. Don't ya think?"

Matt inhaled. "I'm a lawyer," he eventually replied, trying desperately to stay calm, "and I have to see the innocence, the goodness, in people until they're found guilty."

"That's a fuckin' cop-out, Blue, an' you know it. You're a good guy; you patched me up, defended me to ya pal and ya ain't treated me with anythin' other than respect, so don't disrespect me now?" There was a pause. "Are ya really tellin' me tha'  _Daredevil_ is worth my Maria, my baby girl Lisa and my boy Frankie? Ya tellin' me that he's worth bein' hopeful in the face of all this shit?"

And wasn't that the question? Matt felt an ache in his chest that  _burned_ at the words his other half had spat towards him. And then he actually thought about what his Soulmate was asking. Matt Murdock was a broke lawyer. He was a  _blind_ , broke lawyer. He had two friends, a hand full of acquaintances but otherwise no real ties in his life. He broke rule after rule in his religion, desperate to hear Father Lantom tell him what he was doing was good. That God wanted him to help the people of Hell's Kitchen. He couldn't deal with loud noises or smells because they overwhelmed him if he didn't tune them out in time, and his peculiarities stretched into touch as well. This particular type of sheets, or towels, because the feeling on his skin was like sandpaper if it was wrong. And as for Daredevil? He was a vigilante. He got beaten half-way to shit every other night and sliced up on the days in between. He was a disappointment to Frank already, because he wouldn't kill, and had more more enemies in the criminal underworld than Frank had. 

Was he worth it?  Really?

"No, Frank," Matt whispered with a trembling voice, his decision made. "No, he's definitely not."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also - just as a little author's aside: I know Charlie Cox's eyes are brown, but I used the Daredevil Earth-616 eye colour (Blue) because I wanted Frank to call Matt 'Blue' as a mirror to Daredevil being 'Red' (partly because I thought using 'Brown' would sound a little rubbish!?)
> 
> I did write this instead of sleeping last night, and tried to do a little bit of editing today although its been crazy busy, so sorry for any mistakes and all - I am a one man band with editing done by my more awake brain and my writing done by my sleepy brain 
> 
> Hope you're all good lovely peoples,  
> -R.


	4. frank

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rights to right people, alright? Ha. 
> 
> Thanks guys and thanks for the comments! Super nervous about this pairing if it wasn't like already so incredibly transparent, so I'm a total slut for feedback!
> 
> I also made myself swear I'd finish this before watching season 3 (I cannot believe I did that, but I'mma try and get everything up a lot quicker over the next couple of days!)
> 
> Much love,  
> -R.

There were four things Matt _**knew**_.

Firsly, he was a selfish, **selfish** person. 

Frank wasn't supposed to stay for long. Between the overwhelming emotions Matt had felt after hearing his Soulmate's story, and the knowledge that their shared co-habitation was not a good thing to continue, the initial plan was for the Punisher to move on the moment he could stand on his own. It hadn't worked that way of course.

It had been twelve days since Frank had stumbled, bleeding violently, into Matt's flat. Twelve days since he poured out his heart and confessed the turmoil inside him. Twelve days since Matt realised that no, he wasn't worth it, and that Frank deserved more than Daredevil. Twelve days of near constant touching and talking... and trusting. After all Matt had been forced to return to the office after three days cooped up inside his home - there was work to be done - and so he had left the Punisher on his couch, reading. The first day he'd been sick with worry, especially if the man grew curious enough to unlock the cupboard that housed his suit, but it grew easier the more he did it. Karen had stopped by most evenings and thanked Matt for his hospitality, but even she was growing more and more suspicious as to  _why_ Frank was still living inside his apartment.

Matt, though, did nothing to encourage his leaving. In fact, he welcomed the presence, selfishly coveting what little attention and time he could from his Soulmate before the inevitable separation. He'd long since accepted that he and Frank would never be what all others were when they met the owners of the words on their wrists. But he was desperate and he was selfish enough to take whatever he could, and if this uncertain domesticity was the best on offer, he was going to hoard it and hold onto it as long as he could. 

Secondly, Frank Castle was beautiful. 

Frank had starting doing things  _shirtless_. He'd taken to strutting around the apartment with less clothes after showering, confident that the blind man wouldn't be able to notice the difference. He'd made some passing comment over a week previously about whether he could because the t-shirt was irritating the healing skin on his shoulder, and Matt had confirmed it wasn't a problem. 

 _It was a problem_. 

Frank was attractive, he knew that. Karen's pheromones hit the roof whenever she came over and it grossly outstripped the response she had to him. She'd flirted once or twice, but Frank - always polite - was nothing but respectful in return. She'd been a little disappointed but not entirely dissuaded. Matt was curious if Foggy would react someway. That would really tell him just how good-looking Frank really was. But asking his best friend to come over would be like throwing a grenade on a camp fire: stupid and asking for trouble. A part of Matt wanted to ask if he could trace Frank's features, build up a picture of the man, but it seemed too intimate and there was never a right time to broach such a thing. He'd been incredibly professional as he'd cleaned and dressed Frank's wounds but as he was rapidly healing, there was no need for him to drag his fingers over the marks left by whatever had attacked him that night. Occasionally Frank grunted - a sign that he couldn't quite reach the part of his shoulder he wanted to - and Matt would offer his assistance, but other than that all medical aid had been taken over by the man himself. And the more Frank became self-sufficient, the more panic bred in the pit of Matt's stomach.

But Frank stayed.  

He stayed, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the way his body responded. The mere smell of him: of leather, coffee, the tangy faint traces of metal and gunpowder and something undeniably Frank, felt like a warm blanket, or sinking into a hot bath: blissful. He relaxed, muscles unwinding from their near constant state of tenseness, around the soldier, although his heartrate alternated between racing out of control or slowing down to a lethargic, sleepy tempo. It was intoxicating, and dizzying.  

Thirdly, he was integrating himself into Matt's life in a way that no one ever had before.

He was becoming a part of Matt's life the longer he hung out in the apartment and there was something a little unnerving about the situation. Frank's clothes - newly store bought by Karen two weeks prior - were in Matt's laundry basket, hanging on the backs of his chairs or folded in one of his drawers. Frank's books - also bought by Karen - littered the living room. His mug - or at least the one he had claimed - was almost always on the coffee table; and a small, cheap television set had appeared in the far corner of his place six days ago. Matt hadn't noticed these things until he'd walked into his flat five nights ago, weary from work and incredibly thankful he had an excuse not to go on patrol as Daredevil, and tripped over a pair of boots he hadn't noticed. Frank, halfway through cooking dinner, had swore colourfully and helped him up, kicking his shoes under the table as he did. "Sorry Blue," he'd muttered, checking him over quickly for injuries. "Forgot I'd left 'em there," he confessed, before guiding him to a chair and proceeded to ask Matt all about his day. The domesticity of it had frightened and thrilled Matt in equal measure. Because that was supposed to be what Soulmates did...but Frank didn't, wouldn't,  _couldn't_ know that they were Soulmates. So this was him being  _him_. And suddenly every sense of Frank loomed large around him. For any stranger, the flat would look not just his but  _theirs_. And wasn't that a thought?

Foggy hadn't said a word about it; about the sudden appearance of _Matt-and-Frank,_ rather than _Matt_ and **Frank**. Admittedly, he'd glared at Matt - and at Karen - a few times, but overall had decided that avoiding the conversation would ultimately avoid the ensuing argument. He knew that Matt wouldn't listen to his advice where the Punisher was concerned, so he just pretended the situation wasn't happening. In a way Matt appreciated it, although he was growing more and more desperate to talk to someone about the word on his wrist and just what Frank thought of the Devil of Hell's Kitchen and the growing _thing_ between them.  Although he wasn't sure they would talk about it even if Foggy was acknowledging of what was going on. It felt only right that the first person who should know that he was Frank Castle's Soulmate  _was_ Frank Castle. It was for that reason that he hadn't turned to Father Lantom either. But it was tearing him apart - becoming worse and worse as they inched closer together. 

He knew that it was cruel, to allow such domesticity. Frank would most definitely be furious, and betrayed, if he discovered that it was  _Daredevil_ who he now spent most of his time with. But he hadn't done anything to change it. He couldn't, if he was honest with himself, because he was selfish, and Frank was _attractive,_ and Frank was in his life. 

Fourthly, Matthew Murdock was in love with Frank Castle.

Matt _loved_ Frank. 

It hadn't been a light-bulb moment. He wasn't washing dishes, before gasping comically and dropping the pan into the sink. He didn't do any of that. In fact it was in the quiet, sleepy hours before they turned in. Frank had been speaking about a particular politician he'd more than happily murder if he could travel to Washington in his condition, and Matt had been lulled to sleep by the rumbling baritone of his voice and the reassuring scent on his t-shirt. When he half came to, he was buried in the man's side, Frank's arms holding him steady as he slept, and more at peace than he had been in years. He'd known then that he wanted to wake up like that every day. Every. Single. Day. He'd realised then, listening to the thump of Frank's heart and the rise and fall of his chest that the man was  _it_ for him. (He knew the moment he said Matt's words, but had never truly accepted that on every level until that moment). 

He loved him. 

He loved the ridiculous way he whistled when he cooked; pouted when Matt said something particularly self-deprecating; squinted when he read; snorted into his coffee when Matt recounted funny tales of roosters in the office and sixty-five bunches of bananas being delivered in thanks. "Well I guess you guys will be eating banoffee pie for dessert for a few weeks," he'd returned, aiming for deadpan, but the lift in his voice betrayed his amusement. Matt loved his love for animals, his rumbling laugh, and the soft gentle tone he'd use when speaking of his children - after his explosive confession, Frank had shared a few, much happier stories about Lisa and Frankie going to school, the zoo, the park, or sitting at the breakfast table throwing blueberries at each other when they'd finished their pancakes.  

Daredevil was, wholeheartedly, madly, stupidly in love with The Punisher. 

And Matt was beginning to wonder if Frank might not like him, like  _Matt,_ in reply. 

It had started with the little things. Small, curious looks, which turned into blatant staring. Pretending not to know that the ex-marine was watching him near constantly was beginning to be exhausting, but Matt kept with it. Then they began to sit nearer to each other. Then they were touching. Then legs were tangled together, or feet were in laps. On one occasion, Frank's  _head_ was in Matt's lap as he carded his fingers through what little hair Frank had. But nothing came of any of it and Matt, of course, hadn't pushed. How would be explain, or justify, the emotions, after all? Frank hated Daredevil. 

Matt should be ashamed. 

But he was selfish, Frank was pretty and settled in his life, and Matt was so in **love**.

They were sat on the couch in slacks and soft t-shirts, Matt's bare feet resting in Frank's lap as his fingers ran over the case notes for the new client they'd acquired that afternoon, glasses still perched on the end of his nose. Their meal - a lasagne concoction that Frank had proved incredibly good at - was cooking behind them while the ex-marine was finishing a book. He huffed in displeasure at the story-line several times, bringing a half-smile to Matt's face because he'd expressed his uncertainty at the main character nearly twice an hour for the four days he'd been reading it. He'd just turned the page when the door knocked:  _Karen_. It was always Karen. Frank must have realised too, because he barely glanced up from his book. 

"It's open," he shouted. The door heaved open and heels on the floor echoed around them. 

"Hey!" Karen called from the hallway, hanging up her coat and rustling a bottle of wine from a paper bag. It was the third time she'd stayed for dinner, but the first two occasions had been in the days immediately following Frank's injury. It had been a surprise to Matt when Karen had asked to come over later than usual, but when he'd mentioned it to Frank, the man had shrugged and said:

"So long as she doesn't bitch about my lasagne." And that, it seemed, was that. 

"Sorry I'm late," she continued, rounding the corner. Matt heard her grind to a halt and her lungs fill with air.  _Surprise_. 

"Nah worries Karen," Frank replied, still not looking up, "still got ten, fifteen minutes or so," he said, distracted. 

"Oh," she replied, voice higher than usual.

Matt took a sniff before frowning. "Maybe not," he muttered. "Somethings burning Frank."

"What?" he replied, turning and giving Matt his full, undivided attention. 

"Something's  _burning_ ," he insisted. Frank cursed under his breath, not smelling anything but certainly trusting Matt enough to check. He dropped his book on the table and gently lifted Matt's feet before placing them in his space.

"Want a drink Karen?" Frank asked, limping just a little as he moved into the kitchen and pulled open the oven. The smell of partially burned pasta filled the room. "Fuckin' hell," he swore, pulling it out and turning the oven down. "You got one hell of a nose, Blue," he called over as he assessed the damage. It was mostly alright and he scraped off the worst part before turning it around and placing it on a lower shelf to keep it warm. "It's done," he announced. "Ya gonna set the table, Blue?"

"No," Matt replied, too comfortable to move. 

"It's alright," Karen broke in, discomfort evident now, "I can do it."

"Thanks Karen," Frank began, "but guests don't set the table," he said, turning back to Matt, "do they  _Juris Doctor_?"

"Bite me," Matt shot back, attention remaining on his work, because they did this dance most days and it always ended with them laughing or Frank bodily carrying Matt to the table, or both. And from the uptick in Frank's heart it wasn't just Matt who enjoyed the closeness their strange routine brought. Domesticity, he thought. They had, much like all marked others, fallen into it. 

Frank sighed, partly in amusement and partly in half-forced irritation. Matt heard his bare feet on the floor, before the scent of coffee, leather and something undeniably Frank loomed around him. Then a hand was around his waist, another beneath his thighs, and he was being heaved off the couch, papers falling to the floor around him. He spluttered indignantly, aware of the creak in Frank's still healing shoulder, but the laughter beneath the soldier's skin was enough to stop him shimmying free. Then his feet were on the ground and Frank's hand was guiding him to the cupboard door. "Plates," he said, chuckle in his voice, "go."

Matt complied, but not before he stuck his tongue out. He'd never done so before and a surprised inhale from the man before him coupled with a faint, barely there scent of arousal, was suddenly flooding his senses. Heat raced to his cheeks but he turned away, moving to the table before Frank saw. After a moment Frank turned away too. "Wine, Karen?" Frank asked, jerking his head to the bottle still in the woman's hand.

"Uh, yeah, um, alright," she murmured, eyes pinned to Matt as though she wasn't sure of what she was seeing was real. "Thank you," she added as Frank poured her a glass and handed it back. The former Lieutenant moved back to the oven and pulled out the dish, carrying it to the table between two dish clothes and almost dropping it on the place-mat Matt had put there. He returned with a bowl of salad, salad tongs and a serving spoon a moment later. His beer clinked Matt's before turning to Karen after a moment, as though remembering she was there, and tapped the bottle against her wine glass with a half smile. 

"How ya doing Karen? Good day? Blue said it was busy," he began, dishing a large portion of food onto first Matt's plate, then his own before offering the spoon to Karen so she might decide on her own portion size. 

"Yes, busy," she repeated, clearly still dazed at the rapport they had established. "Um, sorry,  _Blue_?"

"Me," Matt said with a smile, raising his hand as though it were the first day in law school again. 

"Of course," the woman smiled, still not understanding but unsure on whether she should push.

"New client," Frank pressed, making the decision for them, "right?"

"Oh, yeah," Karen nodded, "Mrs Dellany," she continued, not really paying attention. "She was wrongly evicted." She paused. "Is it Blue because of his suits?" she asked, curious. 

Frank frowned. "His eyes," he said around a mouthful of pasta, tone implying that the nickname should be self-explanatory. 

"Oh," she nodded before grimacing, "I, uh, never noticed." Matt felt himself tense, embarrassment washing over him, but he offered a fake smile to placate a sense of unease that had stuttered Karen's breathing. 

"Don't worry about it," he assured her. She didn't see through it. Frank, however, did, because suddenly there was the heavy weight of Frank's palm burning a hole into Matt's knee. The ex-marine squeezed once in reassurance and Matt found himself offering a grateful smile in reply. Then the hand moved. It framed his face for a moment before his fingers began grasping at his glasses and easing them off. A blush raced up Matt's neck and flooded his cheeks but Frank had looked away as he folded the shades neatly and put them on the counter behind him. The lawyer felt suddenly incredibly vulnerable, and self conscious, especially with the look Karen was now pinning to the side of his face, but as soon as Frank's hand returned to its place on his leg, he settled.

His heart tripled in size, and all because of the glorious man beside him. God, he was so in love. 

Karen cleared her throat, probably because it had gone incredibly dry all of a sudden. She smiled tightly before taking a bite of food. "So, Frank," she began, tilting just enough towards the broad-set ex-marine to demonstrate she had little intention of engaging Matt in much conversation for the night. "You're healing well," she smiled, "better by the day."

"You know me, Karen," Frank snorted, taking a drag of his beer, "ain't nothin' keepin' me down."

"Mr Indestructible," Karen retorted with an almost giggle, looking up through her hair. 

"Eh," he shrugged, "not quite. Helps to have a good nurse."

"If you're talking about me, Frank, you'll be sleeping on the floor," Matt retorted quickly, but without any bite, allowing a smile to creep into his words. 

"Course not, Blue," he replied, "your bedside manner's too shit to be a nurse."

Matt bit back a laugh.

Karen hummed, eyes narrowing sharply as she watched the pair of them. "The police think you've moved on," she ventured, "they're not actively looking for you at the moment."

There was a pause. 

"Well ain't that somethin'?" Frank shook his head. "Maybe I should get shot up more often, huh, if it gets me a bit of breathin' space?"

"Please don't," Matt retorted, ignoring the thundering, desperate pace of his heart at the notion of Frank leaving, "I don't think I can get any more bloodstains out of my floor."

Frank laughed and even Karen attempted a smile, although it turned into more of a grimace. "Don't worry 'bout it," he said, squeezing Matt's leg in comfort. "I'm alright here," he chuckled, taking another mouthful of food and winking at the blonde apparently shell-shocked before them. "Matt and I are good, Karen," another smile. "Aren't we?"

"Everything's fine Karen," Matt nodded dumbly, mind screaming: _no, no, no, no it's not, he'll hate me when he knows..._ "Honestly, everything's okay."

 


	5. him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rights to the brains that are Marvel, Stan Lee and Daredevil (TV) etc., they deserve all the credit. 
> 
> You guys are seriously, way too kind with your comments! I love them and am so grateful for them, so thank you very muchly, 
> 
> Hope everyone's loving Season 3!
> 
> All my love,  
> -R.

The day, it seemed, couldn't have gone any worse. 

It had begun with Foggy snapping: "What the  _hell_ is going on with you and Castle?" as he walked through the door, followed by a series of curses and a final: "are you _fucking_ the fucking **Punisher** , Matt?". It was followed by Karen giving him what was possibly the world's pettiest cold shoulder because  _come on,_ Frank was never hers in the first place (he was, intrinsically, Matt's after all). It ended with the abusive ex-boyfriend of one of their clients storming into their office and punching Matt square in the face. He was so preoccupied with the Karen-and-Foggy shitshow, he hadn't even heard the angry man stomp up the stairs. 

Luckily, Karen carried mace. 

By the end of the day Matt was bruised, frustrated and the word on his wrist itched like he'd dragged it through a patch of stinging nettles. His split lip and bloody cheek smarted a little as it was buffeted by an unusually strong wind that had decided to sweep through Hell's Kitchen, and he was doggedly tired. All he wanted was to curl up beneath soft blankets and shut out the world. The moment he entered his living room, however, he knew that wasn't going to happen. 

The sharp, harsh way Frank's lungs filled, mouth pausing in whatever word he was going to shape, as he looked up and saw the violence evident on his face, told Matt that someone was going to end up yelling. And if history was any indicator, it was going to be him. Within a second, there were fingers cupping his cheeks, thumbs brushing carefully and hesitantly over his skin. The rough pads of his fingertips should have felt like sandpaper to his cuts and the dark colour splashed over his features, instead they felt like silk.

" _Matt_."

The name seemed punched out of Frank, like the fist had landed in his stomach, or on his still healing leg, and not the lawyer's flaring cheekbone. It was agonisingly desperate, but layered by something haunted that Matt didn't particularly want to explore. Then every muscle in Frank's body locked. His arms coiled and it became glaringly obvious as to the power that lurked beneath the man's skin. Even though his touch remained gentle, the tension - the sharp stretch of each muscle as it began preparing to attack - rippled his arms where they were practically caging Matt in. A half pause before: " _Who_?" Frank snarled, voice filled with ice and pain and a violence Matt hadn't heard since _**bang.**_ The man standing in front of him, surrounding him, wasn't Frank, it wasn't even Castle, it was  _him:_ The Punisher. "Who, did,  _this_...?" he asked again, practically shaking with rage. As soon as the trembling started, Matt could smell it: the burnt tang of adrenaline saturating the air, the bitterness of his blood as it flooded his system, and the sheen of sweat that lightly covered his forehead.  

"Frank -" Matt's voice cracked, breaking his plea. _Please stop, Frank, it's not worth it - it's not worth you going to jail for this_. 

" _ **Who?**_ " he demanded again. 

"It was, was just a client's old boyfriend," Matt replied quickly, "it doesn't matter," he gasped when the man pulled away harshly, leaving him a little unsteady on his feet. "Frank,  _Frank,_ " he called, "stop!" He could hear the man scrambling around the living room, overturning the blankets and his book, almost knocking over his mug, as he searched. After a few moments he grunted in satisfaction and began pulling on his boots, eyes swinging around wildly as he looked desperately for a gun. "Frank,  _stop_ ," Matt repeated, emotionally exhausted. Why couldn't he just sit, _quietly_. There was no change in the ex-marine's movements, no indication he'd heard Matt, let alone had any intention to obey him and stop. Instead, he grabbed his coat from where it was hung over the back of the dining chair, and moved towards the door, boots like thunder-claps on the ground. 

"Stay here," he ordered, tone leaving little room for argument.

But Matt was a lawyer. Arguing was what he did best. 

" **FRANK**!" Matt shouted harshly. " **Stop**! What the _hell_ are you doing?!"

The man whirled on him suddenly. "He  _hit_ you Matt," the Punisher spat. "He's gonna eat a fuckin' bullet."

Matt felt cold. His face paled and his stomach dropped to his feet. Suddenly, the reality of who the man was - what he was - rose up before him. No matter what domesticity they had found, nor the gentle kindness that he had for him, a blind lawyer with little to offer, Frank was, and always would be, The Punisher. He was a killer. A murderer. The other half of him yes, but a half that could never truly be whole. Matt was sure then, that God had intended to use Frank to punish  _him._ Showing him what he could have, before reminding him starkly why he couldn't, why he never would.

"You do that,  _Castle_ , then don't bother coming back."

The words felt like dust in his mouth, but the blue-eyed man forced himself to turn his back and move away, tossing his cane onto the sofa and toeing off his shoes as he went. He moved to the bathroom, diligently ignoring the rapid beat of his Soulmate's heart. He shrugged out of his suit, grabbed his first aid kit, and began wiping away the remaining mess that was his face, taping up what he could. He couldn't do anything for his lip but the cut where the asshole's ring had split his cheek could be dealt with. It was methodical work and helped calm the rage in his chest.

He wasn't sure how long ago their argument had been before heavy footsteps echoed on the floor and the smell of Frank was invading the bathroom. 

"He hit you," he said, as though that was all the explanation he needed. 

"A lot of people have hit me Frank," Matt returned without missing a beat.  _Including you,_ he thought wryly.

"But -"

"No buts," and suddenly the shorter man was angry, pushing his fear and longing into a red rage, because it was so much easier than _dealing_. "No buts. You can't  _kill_ someone because they punched me. How is that justice, Frank, huh? How is that fair? He deserves to go to jail for his crimes against Rita. He doesn't deserve an execution because he punched a lawyer." Matt shook his head. "You have to have some faith in the system."

Frank stepped closer. "He  _hurt_ you," he whispered. 

Matt snorted. "A lot of people have done that too," he bit out bitterly. 

Another step. Then, hands, framing his face and a light, but warm, puff of breath fanning his lips. "He  _hurt_ you," the man ground out, as though the words pained him. And suddenly, it made sense. Because Frank hadn't been able to stop some lowlifes from hurting - from killing - his wife and kids... and it seemed he didn't want to make the same mistake with Matt.  _Oh_ , he thought, suddenly dizzy. _Oh_. 

"Frank -" Matt began, feeling gutted. He didn't finish because suddenly Frank's lips were on his and he was being crowded against the bathroom sink, powerless to stop the man who possessed every inch of his heart. It wasn't desperate, or mindless, but it was thorough and claiming, demanding not only Matt's attention, but his devotion too. The lawyer replied, matching the pace as best he could, but eventually realising that there was a demand that he could never match, because Frank didn't know they were marked for one another. For Frank, this was his opportunity to establish that they belonged to each other, regardless of what the words said; a way to tell the shorter man, and the world, that Matthew Murdock was Frank Castle's. By the time the older man pulled away, Matt's lips felt swollen, bruised even, and there was a warm, buzzing feeling beneath his skin. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that Frank had just officially cemented their bond. They were it for each other now. Forever. Walking away would be disastrous. Maybe even death-inducing (Matt had heard horrifying stories about separated Soulmates who couldn't touch or see one another, and how they'd both wasted away and died from longing). But that hum, that glowing sensation in his core? How could it be anything but the final piece of their bond snapping into place. 

Which meant Frank loved him too.  

Which meant Frank  _loved_ him. 

Him. 

_Daredevil._

The reason his children were dead.

And everything hit him at once. 

Matt didn't realise he was tearing up until a sob broke free and ruptured the silence that had settled around him. His knees buckled next, Frank barely catching him before he hit the ground, surprise and fear bleeding through the soldier's skin. The blind man scrabbled for grip in Frank's shirt, pulling him closer and burying his face in his chest, opening crying now as his shoulders heaved with the weight of his sorrow. Because he was loved, but he shouldn't be. And Frank? Frank would hate him if he knew. And he could never know, but he could never be with Matt and _not_ know. So they were never going to be together. And that  **burned**.

Frank was swearing under his breath, wrapping as many limbs around Matt as he could to try and soothe him, and a half rock had begun in an effort to keep him calm. Nothing was working. It made him feel dirty - taking Frank's affection, his love, without consent. He wouldn't hold him, calm him, if he knew. _If-he-knew, if-he-knew,_ it was a tattoo in his mind. 

"...h-h-how c-can you l-l-l-love me?" Matt heaved eventually, words garbled by the tears now soaking his face and a hysteria climbing into his throat. "... _howcanyouloveme_? I-I'm n-n-not worth it, 'm, 'm, not, 'm  _notworthitnotworthitnotworthit_..."

The grip around him tightened and suddenly he was in Frank's arms, being carried to his bed, soothing kisses pressed to his temple, overwhelming his sensations. The gentle, steady reassurances were barely there but over and over and over again Frank said them: "You're the best thing that could'a happened to a broken thing like me."

He fell asleep to the trace of them on his skin.

 

*   *   *

 

There was a radiating heat smothering his body when he woke. Matt didn't remember much of how he got into bed but he knew there was only one person that could own the warmth beside him. 

Frank shifted in his sleep, muttering under his breath that the lawyer didn't catch. His face felt blotchy and sore, while his skin felt just a touch too tight for his body. The perks, he remembered suddenly, of bawling like a baby before his Soulmate. Part of him couldn't believe he'd lost control so spectacularly. Part of him couldn't believe he'd lasted as long as he had. In a way, they were doomed for some form of implosion, Matt just hadn't suspected he would be the cause of it. 

The ex-marine roused sluggishly, blinking a few times as though trying to gather himself before shifting the arms that had wrapped themselves around Matt and dragged him into the curve of his body. They tightened, almost as a reassurance to Frank that Matt was still there, before relaxing again. 

"I know you're awake, Blue," Frank rumbled softly, leaning forward to brush a hesitant, feather-light kiss to his temple. Matt hummed in reply, not quite trusting his voice. There was another hesitation before: "I gotta ask," he began. 

"...I know," Matt rasped. He sounded even worse than he thought he would. It was like sandpaper scratched against a wire brush in his throat. 

"Last night," Frank said slowly, "when you were...upset. Ya said things, Blue." Matt stiffened but the ex-marine pushed on. "Ya said you weren't worth lovin'..."

"'m not," the lawyer returned, squeezing his eyes tight. "Everything I touch turns to shit."

" _Matthew_."

"Don't," the shorter man snapped, pulling away and sitting up, his back to Frank as he tried to regain composure. The silence loomed large around them. 

"...Is this 'bout ya Soulmate?"

Matt could have laughed. In fact he couldn't be entirely sure that a choked, half-snort didn't burst free from his lips. "You could say that," he eventually replied. A hand settled on his shoulder. 

"Whatever that bastard said, Murdock, he was wrong, ya hear me?" There was such conviction in Frank's voice, such  _certainty_ , that his heart twisted just a little - as did his stomach.

"How do you know? How, Frank?" He was standing, something angry and bitter driving him to his feet. 

"Cos you ain't a bad person, Blue."

"And who would be a bad person in your book, Castle?"

"Any of those shitheads that hurt my family, those corrupt cowards in Washington, that lunatic Fisk - all of them are bad people, darlin', and you're good, Matt, you ain't a monster like them -"

"Like Daredevil is?"

Admittedly, those were  _not_ the words that were supposed to leave his mouth. In fact they weren't even close to the: " _I_ _'m not good Frank, and this is never going to work"_ that he had intended to say. But somehow the sentence spilled forth, sitting heavy on the now tension filled room, because that was the root of all their problems: The Devil of Hell's Kitchen. 

"Daredevil ain't got shit to do with this conversation, Blue, and no, you're better than Daredevil - and yeah, he may be better than those shitheads, but only because he's a holier-than-thou  _prick_ \- and I -"

"He's your Soulmate," Matt pushed. 

"He ain't  _shit_ to me," Frank spat. 

"We can't  **be this** , Frank," Matt shouted, hands in his hair, tugging madly. "It can't work, it _can't_."

"Why not?" he snarled. "Because of this...?!" Matt had no doubt that the mark on Frank's wrist was being brandished in his face, but he didn't have the energy to conjure up any focus to try and see it. "I don't want this, Blue, I don't want to be bound to _**him**_." He strode around the bed, coming to a stop beside Matt, hands framing his face in a tender, loving hold. "I want  _you_ , Blue, damn it, I just want  _you_."

There was a long heavy silence. 

"But you have Daredevil's words," he replied finally, pulling away and walking into the living room. 

"Matt -" Frank never managed to finish his sentence because suddenly Matt was throwing up his hand, stopping him from speaking.

"You have Daredevil's words, Frank," Matt repeated, turning to stare him straight in the eyes. "And I? I have The Punisher's."

 


	6. ex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rights to the minds who come up with this amazing, amazing world. they are my literal heroes. 
> 
> Also thanks so much for the love, you are seriously amazing people. 
> 
> On a shitty note: this is going to be angsty as fuck, and even a little triggering for some people (Matt's feeling empty and lost and contemplates bad shit --- but he never does anything), so only read if you can be okay with that because I don't want anyone unhappy okay? we want smiley, happy people (or as happy as we can be in this fandom!) and so be careful my darlings. 
> 
> love, always,  
> -R.

"He really gone?" Foggy asked as he walked through the door for the first time in weeks. 

Matt heaved in a breath, lungs burning at the motion. "Yeah," he muttered, voice cracking, because it had been five days and he still couldn't shake the ill feeling that notion brought. 

Foggy frowned a little. "Good," he replied with a sharp nod before a smile broke free and he lifted the bag he was carrying to almost head height. "I grabbed our favourite Indian," he grinned, bubbly. "And you better share this time," he ordered, "because I'm starving. And after the day we've had with the Penelope's redundancy package, I'm looking forward to just stuffing my face." Foggy seemed happy. Happy for the first time in a long time.

Because Frank was gone.

He'd fought the truth at first. His " _Bull. Shit,_ " had rung around the deadened air of the apartment. Matt had quickly dismissed that:

"You called me Red," he croaked. "After you chained me to a roof." 

The rage under Frank's skin burned for a second, before he'd gritted out " _Prove it._ "

He'd left the moment Matt showed him the suit. The lawyer hadn't even gotten around to showing him his Soulmark and the first word Frank had said to him. Instead the ex-marine had turned on his heel, gathered up his gun, coat and pulled on his boots before stalking out the door without a single word. Matt let him go. He was always supposed to let Frank go. It was his punishment after all. His cross to bear. His Soulmate destined to make him atone for his many, many sins. The following silence had been deafening. In fact, for a moment, Matt was sure that he'd lost his hearing once more, but the sudden sound of Frank screaming as he drilled his fists over and over into the brick wall of an alley three streets away told him he hadn't. The pain made Matt cry once more, because everything he'd feared had happened. Everything Frank thought about him was true. All the bullshit about him being good? About Frank wanting him? - it all went away with the revelation that he was Daredevil. Because he wasn't good, and he didn't deserve to be happy. In the days that followed his Soulmate's departure, he wondered whether he even deserved to live.

He'd spent an hour staring at one of the guns Frank had left in his apartment, the damning words The Punisher had spat about Daredevil swimming in his brain, before finally driving himself to his feet to see Father Lantom. When he returned, the priest following close behind, he let the man take the gun, the bullets, and even the hunting knife that belonged to his other half, and dispose of them as he saw fit. He didn't ask what the Father did with them, but his appreciation was overwhelming the following morning. The Priest had only smiled worriedly and insisted he come to mass. He didn't feel better, but there was no longer the itch to do something permanent when the service finally ended. Lantom was thankful for that, he'd said, but told Matt repeatedly to surround himself with friends - that he'd feel less alone when surrounded by the people he loved.

It was only that morning, however, that he gathered enough courage to finally mention anything to Foggy and Karen, saying as casually as he could that Castle was better and had moved on. Karen had frowned. Foggy had taken that as an open, and welcome, invitation to return things to their previous state. In a way Matt was grateful, but with his bones feeling like lead, it was difficult to muster up anything particularly stronger than a halfhearted wince of a smile.     

"Come on, my friend," Foggy laughed as he dished out the food, grossly overfilling his own plate, "dig in."

And Matt did. He did as Father Lantom told him. He immersed, he  _surrounded,_ himself with his life. He pretended that his heart wasn't aching and that the smell of Frank didn't still linger on his bed-sheets. He went to work, ignoring the pains that flared up in his bones. And when that didn't work, for the first time in over a month, he donned the suit and went on patrol. Kicking criminals in the teeth, punching flesh and hearing bones crack had made his blood  _sing_ , but now it just made him feel only a little more human. It dulled the ache, but never fully eradicated it. He supposed he'd better get used to the sensation, though, given that it would stay with him for life. He hoped Frank didn't feel it, or at least that he took the worst of it (but after being rejected by his Soulmate not once, but _twice_ , he figured he'd endure the worst of the sensations). Daredevil, ironically, after all the trouble he had caused, was the only thing keeping him sane.

And so it went.

For _two_ **months**.  

And with each day he grew worse. He got weaker, which forced him to train longer and harder to keep in shape, and the world slowly dimmed of colour. He lost his appetite, keeping very little down, and the bouts of deafness grew more and more frequent, with attacks coming twice, if not three times, a week. He grew used to screaming into the dark, lost and confused and blind. He barely slept, haunted by nightmares of Frank dying, Frank screaming, Frank holding his dying children, Matt standing over Frank's broken body with blood on his knuckles and the war-drum tempo of his heartbeat in his ears. They cycled over and over again, changing just enough that they weren't predictable. After all, if they were predictable then he knew what to expect and he could prepare to some degree. They never allowed it. God's punishment was thorough, and relentless, never ceasing in using the Punisher to effectively break Matt down over and over again.

The lack of rest, though, had begun to worry outside forces. Father Lantom, again more than just a little concerned, had somehow joined forces with Foggy, both convinced he was pushing himself too hard to defend the Kitchen. If only they knew he could barely stand after a couple of hours on patrol. If only they knew that the Devil was barely a threat. Matt thanked God everyday that his name and the mere sight of him was enough to scare most of those eager to break the law, especially with the disappearance of the Punisher. Once again, Daredevil was the primary force of vigilantism in the city, and most ran scared before they could engage him.

And he would be, for as long as he could...Which probably wouldn't be much longer. 

Matt wasn't an idiot, he knew the signs. He knew he exhibited every symptom of Soul-Separation-Sickness, that vile disease that was rare enough to be glamorised in movies and almost always ended with a mad dash to the hospital to reunite a separated pair. He knew that he was being slowly pulled apart. What he had hoped, though, was that Foggy was an idiot...at least an idiot when it came to this. Unfortunately he wasn't.

The man was quiet, too quiet, for six days; contemplating something that Matt couldn't muster the energy to listen for. Eventually he began to stare. Openly, brazenly: it was more than just uncomfortable, it  _unnerved_ him. Matt Murdock was unsettled by his best friend. He realised then just how quickly he was wasting away. It came to a head two months, one week, four days, sixteen hours and forty nine minutes after Frank had left. Matt, struggling with another bout of deafness, was curled up, sobbing against his wall, hands tugging at his ears as though he hoped to pull them off. There had been nothing but ringing and a whiteness he associated with being vulnerable, when a hand clamped down on his arm. Then he began to scream in earnest, flailing as he did, a panic thrumming through him he'd never felt before, because  _anything could happen_ , and he was powerless to stop it. He tried to run, only to trip and fall, leaving him scrabbling away across the floor like a frightened child, backing himself into the corner where the television had once stood. He kept screaming. He screamed until his voice cracked. Instead he began to speak; words falling from his lips without permission, but nevertheless falling.

He spoke quickly. No-one touched him again. 

Eventually the ringing stopped, as it always did, and he became aware of two voices angrily talking. Foggy, he was sure, was one, the other he didn't fully recognise. 

"F-F-Foggy?" he asked, still frightened but desperately hopeful his friend was there. 

"Oh thank God," Foggy exhaled all in one breath. "God, Matt, are you okay?!" He was beside him in an instant. "You couldn't hear me Matt, what  _happened_?"

"'m okay," he croaked. 

"No, no, no,  _no_ , you are so very far from being okay, Matt? What the hell's going on...? This looks like the...the _Sickness_ , Matt."

Matt took a moment to compose himself, wetting his lips and pushing back the pain strumming through his body. He shouldn't say anything, but there was no way his friend was going to let this go, not now. Not to mention, of course, it wasn't like he could actually hide what was happening to him anymore. "It,  _uh_ , it  **is** Soul-Sickness, Fog," he breathed, before chuckling wryly. "'m dying."

The air could have shattered like glass it was so still. 

"But...Who?" he eventually asked, tears in his voice, "Matt,  _who?_ "

" ** _Ba_** _ **ng**_ ," Matt muttered in reply, flashing his wrist and releasing a breathy chuckle. "...said it...when he shot me...in the head."

Foggy's lungs inflated as though pumped up like a balloon. "The Punisher?!" he asked hoarsely. "Oh Jesus."

Matt chuckled in reply, a wet, heavy thing that tasted like blood. "Yep."

"What happened?" Fog breathed. 

"Left," he rasped. "Frank... _hated_  Daredevil. Liked Matt, though...he wanted... I told him. Then -"

"He just left?!"

"Deserve it, Fog...to be 'lone. 'm not... _good_."

"You're better than that asshole," he swore, before: "Sorry Father."

"Lantom?" Matt asked. 

"I'm right here, Matthew," Father Lantom replied, kneeling down beside him. "I'm sorry we didn't come to your aide sooner."

"...nothing you could'a done, Father."

"Nevertheless -" He was cut off by Foggy's phone. 

"Shit, it's Karen," he said. "I told her I was coming to check on you. Hang on." He answered, not moving his hand from its place on Matt's knee. "Karen, this isn't really a good time, can I call you back?"

" _Foggy, listen!"_ She sounded panicked.  _"The shoot-out downtown, remember? Three dozen dead, and they put six bullets in the guy who did it! I know who it was!"_

"Who?" Matt asked, dread crawling up his spine, because he hadn't heard about that: too lost in the fog of his mind, and no-one, _no-one_ , could take down three dozen men in a gunfight, other than Frank. 

"Who Karen?" Foggy asked.   

 _"Frank Castle,"_ she replied,  _"it's the Punisher."_

"Help me get dressed," Matt demanded, trying to stand.

"Wait -" Foggy started. 

"Matthew," muttered Father Lantom. 

"What hospital?" Matt asked, wheezing slightly. 

"Don't even  _think_ about it Matt," Foggy hissed, "we -"

"They'll...they'll g-give him the c-chair, Fog," he paused, "and then...won't matter."

"Shit," he cursed. "Karen, go to the hospital, text me the address, we're on our way."

 _Maybe they would have a mad-dash to the hospital,_ Matt chuckled to himself as he was helped into his bedroom so he could pull on his suit. 

"Your ears are bleeding Matthew," Father Lantom murmured, bringing a damp cloth to wipe away the blood. It was clear the man wanted to say something, although was unsure as to whether it would be welcome. Matt must had jerked his head or looked at his just right because suddenly he was speaking. "Whatever you may think of this match, Matthew, I will say this: while I do not know God's intentions, I am sure he is not punishing you." The vigilante laughed hoarsely. "Listen to me, son. Have you considered, perhaps, that God sent you Mr Castle because it was Mr Castle in need of saving? And that you, Matthew, were the only one capable of doing so?"

"Father -"

"Just because you assume the worst, does not mean that the worst is His intention. There is nothing that cannot be redeemed, Matthew, and who better to help such a man on the path to redemption, than you?"

There was a long silence. Then:

"Matt! You okay?!"

"Coming Foggy," he replied, fidgeting with his tie and ignoring the growing lethargy in his bones. "Thank you Father."

"Be careful, Matthew," he replied.

Then Foggy was leading him away, onto the street, into a cab, to the hospital, through the ID check with Karen hanging over their shoulder. Through Brett, through, " _the man's already got a lawyer_ " and Matt was grateful Foggy did most of the talking. But he couldn't help the shake in his hands, the slowly growing sensation behind his navel, pulling him closer and closer to the door. Frank was there.

Frank was there. 

Matt could smell the antiseptic, the blood from his wounds, the surgical gauze, and the cold  _chink_ of metal on his wrists. He could hear the laboured breathing, a mirror to his own.  _Shit_ , he realised, Frank was suffering too. Not as badly, but he was. Matt was stepping forward before he could think. 

" _Matt,_ the tape," Foggy called out. He stopped. Not that he wanted to. No, he wanted to map out every wound on the man.

"Frank Castle," he said, voice wavering.  _Who knew who was listening_.  "My name is Matthew Murdock," be began as Frank's eyes fluttered open. "These are my associates, Franklin Nelson and Karen Page."

The Punisher met his gaze straight on, a half snarl curdling on his lips. "Yeah," he ground out, angry but catching on quick, "I know who you are." A pause. "You protect shitbags."

Matt didn't waver, instead he scoffed. "Then I suppose today is your lucky day Frank," he said. "You see I came here today to make you an offer-"

"I don't want shit from you, Murdock." There was a gasp behind him. Then Karen was charging toward, talking about conspiracy and not at all sticking to the script. 

"This is bullshit Frank," she snarled, pulling out a photo of Frank's family. "Don't you want to know what really happened?"

"Where'd you get that...?!" 

There was arguing and a lot of noise outside the door and suddenly the ground moved beneath Matt's feet. "Shit," he muttered, knowing exactly what was about to happen. He'd experienced it enough times. His knees buckled suddenly and he crumpled in a heap to the ground, ringing returning in full force.

"...Matt? Foggy what's happening?" Karen shouted through the haze. Then nothing.

Nothing but silence.

There was a hand on him, he knew it was Foggy, but that still didn't stop him from hyperventilating. Breath shuddering in and out of his mouth, sharp on his teeth. He was groaning, he knew, from the half rumble in his chest. Foggy's hands left him for a moment and panic set in. A scrambling then they were back on him. His hands were tangled in his hair, fingers digging into his scalp as he waited out the pain. He didn't realise he was praying until he noticed his mouth shaping words, whispering pleas to make it stop, end it, take the pain away.

Suddenly half a dozen hands were on him and he started screaming, thrashing as they tried to pull him to his feet. He struck out his an elbow, catching flesh, before there was a pinch in the side of his neck. 

The black overcame the white.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to sleep at some point, I know, but I'll try and get the next chapter up before tomorrow...  
> -R.


	7. roommate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello all! 
> 
> I am refreshed and ready to do this shit! woo! thanks to everyone for your lovely comments (and you amazing, amazing people who told me to grab some zzz's, you are genuine sweethearts!). 
> 
> rights, as per usual, to the minds of Marvel. 
> 
> bit of a shorter chapter, but the next couple will be longer! thanks for sticking with this everyone!
> 
> lets. do. this. *fist pump*  
> -R.

The world sounded normal when he woke. New York never stopping its endless march forward like a one-man-band with steel drums and dustbin lids. The usual hum of neon and light; the  _hiss_ of metal subway doors followed by the clack of the train on the rails; men, drilling, six blocks away, drowning out the endless chatter around them; the whirr of the coffee machines on the ground floor and in the lounge at the end of the hall. He slowly faded it all out, narrowing down to the three heartbeats he could hear around him. He shifted with a groan, hand coming up to clutch at his neck. 

"They gave you a sedative," a rumbling voice just to his left informed him.  _Frank._ "You were screamin'."

Matt swallowed heavily but didn't reply, instead choosing to wriggle his fingers and toes, gauging some sort of time-frame for the drug wearing off. It was still sitting in his bloodstream, making his sleepy and numb. He didn't like the sensation; it made him feel slow and hazy, two things that left a vigilante more than just a little vulnerable. 

"Your friend's an alrigh' lawyer," Frank continued, voice flat. "Told 'em to stick it, that he'd sue, if they didn't leave you in here with me and let us be... _roommates_. Told 'em they were interferin' with a match. Karen almost fell over at that." He paused. "Then he started on Soulmate laws and Separation-Sickness, an' about the madness it can bring..." he trailed off. "He lied his ass off, Murdock. Said all tha' killin' was 'cos we were apart. Even the DA looked scared the case is goin' to get thrown out." He chuckled. "They even agreed to let me go after 'm healed, release me on bail 'til the hearin'. Apparently, bein' one of the matched marked is a good thing." He paused again, clearly waiting for a response. Matt still didn't reply. "You not talkin' to me,  _Red_?" he asked snidely. Matt's hands gripped the sheets tight, knuckles turning white under the strain, biting back a hundred things he wanted to say. "What, you dumb as well as bli-" he cut himself off. "Well, we both know ya ain't really blind, Murdock," he snorted. "Don't know why you get kicks outta pretendin' not to see." He took a breath in, turning slightly if the creak of the bed was anything. "An' what's with your ears? Ain't never heard of tha' happening?"

"Side effect," Matt finally muttered, unable to hold his silence. 

Frank smirked, "Oh yeah, of wha'? Because there ain't any documented cases of that anywhere."

"Of being shot in the head," he replied, deadpan. 

"Shot in the h-". Frank stopped. The realisation must of crashed over him suddenly, because there were far too many physiological reactions for Matt to keep track off in his compromised state. His heart, his lungs, his muscles - they all responded. 

"I told you there is more than one way to see, Frank. I see with my other senses, my ears being more important of them all. When you shot me, I started getting episodes of deafness. What you saw was one of them."

There was a pregnant pause. "What's my word, Red?"

Matt didn't look over, in fact he didn't even open his eyes. Instead he huffed a laugh that twinged his chest and smiled sadly. "Bang," he said. "Your word is  ** _bang._** "

"...Jesus," he muttered.

"Not quite," Matt replied, before focusing elsewhere. He sensed a shift in Foggy's heart rate and sat up in reply. 

The man hadn't moved in a while, that was clear, and his stomach was rumbling. The shirt, however, was clean, so clearly Marci had been by to drop off clothes. "Hey, Foggy," Matt smiled as his friends eyes flickered open. 

"Matt?" he murmured. "Matt," he said again, lurching forward all of a sudden and disturbing Karen as he went. "Jesus, you look like shit."

The blue-eyed lawyer barked out a laugh. "Hey, what ya gonna do?" he asked. "Thanks for..." he motioned a hand to the room. 

"Don't worry about it Matt, it's going to be alright. They got the best Sickness Doctors in the country to fly in to help. You've been out a couple of days, but they said that with the meds, and proximity, you should make a full recovery."

"Thank you Foggy," he grinned before smiling over at Karen who had sluggishly made her way to his bedside. 

"You scared the hell out of us, Murdock," she said angrily, the worry evident, before she softened and pulled him into a hug. "Don't ever do that again, okay?"

"Pinky swear," Matt replied, happy to feel something warm in his chest after the weeks of cold emptiness. "Now, how's everyone? Everything? Cases, the office?" He needed to be thinking about something else. He didn't want all his attention and focus on Frank. Normalcy - the one thing that had felt like a lump under his skin - was now the one thing he was craving.

"Matt -" Foggy protested. 

"Please Fog."

"Alright," he conceded, noticing the desperation there, before jabbing a finger at him, "but when I say we stop, we stop." Matt held his hands up in surrender. "Okay," he began, pulling the chair closer and grabbing several files from his bag. "Mr and Mrs Hernández," he started. "We've got them a date for the trial against their landlord for next week."

"Bedbugs, right?"  

"Yeah," Karen cut in, perching on the end of his bed by his feet. "They're staying with their daughter and son-in-law at the moment, but having two elderly people sleep on the couch isn't ideal. Luckily we spoke with the other tenants again and they want to join the suit as witnesses."

"How many?"

"At the moment six other families," Foggy replied before smiling. "I don't wanna jinx it, but it's looking good, Matt."

"Great," he sighed. "What about Mr Pachis? Any outcome from the plea?"

"Success!" Foggy grinned. "Judge came back this morning. The charge has gone down from attempted murder to battery," he paused. "I don't know how they even charged him with that in the first place: I mean how is defending yourself from a gang member in a pub using a bottle intent to murder, I don't know." 

"Corrupt cops," Karen chimed in. 

"I know right! But that's why we're here. Nelson and Murdock, righting wrongs!"

Matt huffed out a laugh, tailing it off as he suddenly became hyper aware of Frank's gaze pinned to the side of his head. "Easy there Foggy, one case at a time, alright?" 

"Yeah, yeah, so, Mr Jedynak, he dropped off three boxes of oranges and half a pig yesterday as payment for his case, so we had to put it in your freezer," he coughed, almost bashfully. "And we also put the payment from Miss Helena in your kitchen too. Karen and I don't like tuna steaks."

"Neither do I, Foggy," Matt snorted. 

"I'll head down to the fish market tomorrow morning," Karen interjected, "see what we can get for them."

"Right -" They were cut off by the sound of the door opening and a nurse walking through. 

"You lot better not be working," came the order. 

"Claire?" Matt asked, curious, recognising the familiar smell that invaded his senses. 

"Why is it whenever I see you, Murdock, you're always in need of hospital?" She smiled, no real bite behind the words. "Hey Franklin."

"Hello Claire," Foggy replied, just as happy to see the woman as Matt was. 

"So you've been looking after me?" Matt asked. 

"Only for old times sake," she shot back just as quickly, pulling a snort from his law partner and a gentle smile from himself. 

"Well then I know I'm definitely on the mend," he retorted. 

"I see your flirting is still awful," she laughed. 

"Were ya expectin' it to improve?" came a flat, half-irritated comment from the bed beside him. The room dynamic changed instantly.

After a few moments, Karen excused herself to the bathroom and as soon as she was gone, Claire relaxed and smirked down at Matt. "Really, The Punisher?" she asked. "You trying to make life harder?"

"I figured I might as well give it a shot," he retorted. "Although, at least this way I'll never have to look far for a criminal to punch in the face." 

"...Watch your fuckin' mouth, Murdock," Frank snapped.

"Hey!" Claire snapped, angrily turning on the man. "You watch _your_ mouth. Because Matt's Soulmate or not, I will slap you halfway across the room if you speak to him like that again, do you hear me?" Frank was no doubt alarmed, and surprised, if his heart beat was any indication. "Jesus," Claire continued. "I heard you were a shitty person, I didn't realise how shitty."

"Claire..." Matt pleaded softly. 

"Seriously?" she asked, rounding on him. "You're going to defend this asshole? You know, for a blind ninja who beats people up in back-alleys, you are far too nice sometimes."

"You can stay for as long as you like," Foggy cut in, grinning at Frank smugly as the man tried to recover from the berating. "Its nice to have someone kick The Punisher into touch."

"Isn't that Matt's job?" Claire chuckled, finishing up her notes on their charts. 

"Ugh," the blue eyed lawyer huffed at the same time Frank bit out: " _No_."

Claire sighed. "Must I bang your heads together, boys? You're both pretty, but you're also both pretty stupid, aren't you? God, between your love of taking down criminals and dressing up like Halloween figures, you're perfect for each other. Not to mention, of course, that if you actually worked together, you could actually make a real, tangible difference in this city. But no,  _you_ ," she pointed at Frank, "would rather act like a dick and abandon your Soulmate. And _you_ ," she turned back to Matt, "would rather let yourself waste away from Sickness than talk some sense into this asshole."

"You know what lady," Frank began teeth gritted, "you ain't got the first fuckin' clue about me or my life, or about what I do, or why, alrigh'? Ya don't know shit."

"Really?" she barked. "Did you ask Matt about his life, maybe about why he does what  _he_ does before you left? Huh?" 

Silence. 

"I thought so," she replied, hackles still raised. "Jesus you boys are idiots," she paused, taking in a breath. "I will be back later. And to ensure you do nothing strenuous, no work and generally take it easy, I am going to interject. Alright?" She fished a full syringe from a nearby cabinet and fed the needle into his IV, depressing the plunger swiftly. "Alright?" she repeated.  

"Yes ma'am," he replied, still a little out of sorts from her confrontation with Frank. Claire crossed the floor and left. 

"Do you think Marci would mind if I married Claire?" Foggy asked after a few moments of quiet. 

Matt burst out laughing, chest aching from something slightly different now. "Probably, buddy, yeah."

"Damn," he muttered. 

They laughed until Matt succumbed to sleep.


	8. acquaintance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and on we go. not too many chapters left now - one more after this, and then an epilogue - unless some random brain wave strikes (of course)! 
> 
> Thank you muchly for the comments, and encouragement, definitely been lovely to read, and majorly settled my concerns about writing this pairing! glad you guys think I've done these two justice! 
> 
> rights to their usual peoples, because even though that would be incredible, I don't own Marvel, or Daredevil or the Punisher...
> 
> Keep on keepin' on,  
> -R.

When the hospital finally released them, Matt was sure that Frank would disappear. Instead, much to his surprise, he followed the lawyer home like a lost puppy. It wasn't even as though they needed to stick together for appearances sake: the rumours surrounding The Punisher having finally been brought to justice had been dismissed as false. It seemed not even the DA wanted to admit that they may have been chasing a man twisted by the loss of his Soulmate - that wouldn't encourage any reelection hopes. In fact, those who had celebrated Castle, and his actions, would no doubt grow in voice when hearing about the situation with Matt. It didn't matter that it was all bullshit, after all, and that the one-man-army that was Frank had devolved months before meeting Daredevil on a roof in Hell's Kitchen. Frank was matched and injured, while Matt had been afflicted with chronic Soul-Sickness, it tallied up as far as they could see. There would be fewer questions for them now. 

Claire had come personally to wish Matt goodbye, dropping a kiss on his cheek and smiling softly. The blind lawyer ignored the sudden stiffness in Frank's body at the motion, because they hadn't said a single word to one another since Claire waded into their relationship several days previously, and he had no intention of having it out in front of other people. Especially as both he and Frank knew the burning questions were about Daredevil, and why he lied about who he really was.

Foggy and Karen had lingered in Matt's apartment, setting themselves the task of distributing food for the four of them, while Matt changed and Frank stood scowling in the corner like a comical gargoyle. They had been slowly inching closer to each other once more, finding reasons, and ways, to stay within the other's orbit. Although the forced proximity of being hospital roommates had helped, the medically mandatory touch had been the most influential aspect in reestablishing physical closeness. Sat, minding their own business, while the lengths of their sides were pressed against each other, ankle to hip to shoulder, had quickened the healing process for both, but still they hadn't spoken. Foggy had said that was weird, Matt had barely chided him: he too was unsure as to where he stood with Frank. He wasn't too keen on finding out either - especially as the last time they'd attempted such a conversation, the ex-marine had turned tail and run away, hiding for two months until Matt was barely strong enough to stand, and Frank himself resembled a sieve far more than a soldier. 

The other two members of Nelson and Murdock kept the conversation flowing as best they could, although it was difficult with half of the group being less than eager to engage. By the time they'd finished, washed and stacked the plates, Foggy and Karen were exhausted, and more than ready to leave. Karen left first, dropping a kiss on first Matt's and then, much to his surprise, Frank's cheek, before disappearing into the night. Foggy lingered, set himself to be as threatening and broad as he could be, jabbed a finger in the Punisher's face and spat: "You leave, I hunt you down. You try and shoot my best friend in the face again, I'll make sure they never find your stupid ass body." Then he turned, gave Matt a hug and he too was gone. 

"Kid's a maniac," Frank said, breaking the self-imposed silence he'd hung around himself like a cloak. Matt only hummed, not willing to sacrifice the quiet he'd kept religiously for several days. It was more because he knew he had very few boundaries when it came to Frank and the more they began conversing, the quicker those walls would crumble to ash piles at his feet. He knew he wouldn't survive another bout of Soul-Sickness as serious as that again if he let himself fall back into old routines, so keeping his distance was no doubt for the best. For all of them, really.  

"I'm-a go wash up," Frank drawled, heading for the bathroom without preamble and giving Matt a moment to himself. The lawyer found himself taking in a long, deep, slow breath to settle himself before he drew out the warmest blanket he had and draped it over his body, wrapping the fabric around his face too so only his eyes and the crop of his hair remained. It was warm and smelled very faintly of Frank - no doubt where the man had sat down earlier in the evening - which made it even more relaxing. It wasn't difficult to let himself drift. 

His dreams were bloody and fragmented: his father, hands raised in triumph and the crimson still slick on his face, after his final match, victorious and unknowing. His gaze found Matt in the crowd and something animalistic hung around him - the Devil rearing its head as it burned through the veins of the Murdock family. There was pride, too, bleeding through his pores, so heavy that Matt could taste it; the same way he could taste the cool, sharp air of the alley, the tang of the trash and the iron of his father's blood. He was screaming, running forward, only to be struck backwards. The rolling, densely packed shoulders of the Kingpin as he punched downwards again and again and again, striking the flayed wounds that Nobu had carved into him, emerged before him. He tasted iron in his mouth and bile in the back of his throat once more, pain lancing his nerves. Everything burned, and there was only one person he wanted to call out for, to help pull him from the fight - to help _save him_. But the dream shifted again, and it wasn't the Kingpin he was defending himself from. Instead he was blocking the punches of the one person he'd been calling for: Frank. Frank who was kicking out at him on a rooftop, grunting and peeling back his lip in a half-snarling grin that bared his teeth like a dark, feral thing. A twisted, bitter half chuckle fell from his mouth as he pulled his gun, inched it just a little to the right. "Bang, Red," he said with a smile, "you lose", then he pulled the trigger.

Matt woke, shaking, and it took him a moment to realise he'd fallen asleep on the couch, not in his bed, when he rolled only to find air, space and then the hard of the floor. "Fuck," he cursed, trying to quell the trembling sensation in his limbs, as he dragged a hand through his sweat soaked hair. He'd hoped proximity would get rid of the nightmares, but so far the only thing it had helped with was his hearing and his fatigue. Physically, he was better; mentally, he was far from it. That was more or less the story of his life, he realised.

"You were screamin' 'gain," a voice muttered and Matt jumped, startled, because he'd forgotten that Frank was there. He dug his fingernails into the arm of the chair and focused on his breathing, stemming the panic still swirling in his chest, before heaving himself back into the seat. "You screamed my name," Frank added after a few seconds of silence. 

"Sorry," Matt murmured, ducking his head and thumbing at his eyes. They were wet - he'd been crying.  

"Ya screamed it," he repeated, as though he couldn't help himself. "How long ya been like this?"

"Does it matter?!" Matt snarled, lurching to his feet with a sudden burst of rage, because how dare Frank ask that...

The stance his Soulmate adopted wasn't defensive, but the lines of his body spoke of his suspicions and the slight worry - he was clearly unnerved by the situation. "Yeah it matters," he retorted, voice flat and unreadable, but his heart was beating much too fast to be nonchalant. The only problem was Matt didn't know if Frank's heart-rate denoted anger, fear, frustration or concern.

"I don't know," the younger man bit out, suddenly feeling incredibly uncomfortable. "I -"

"Look Murdock," Frank cut in, voice cold. "We're goin' to have to be 'round each other, alright? We ain't got a choice," he made some gesture with his hand at the empty space between them and then awkwardly at their wrists. "How 'bout we cut the bullshit an' just deal? I may not like ya, but ya are useful at times."

There was an ugly silence. 

"Useful?" Matt asked. His voice was icy but his stomach had dropped to beneath his feet. It sat like a stone and pulled sharply at all his other organs, and while Matt was in no way interested in pursuing a relationship with his other half under duress, the words that Frank kept using were going to kill him if he didn't return to the affectionate tone and language he had used with _Blue_. 

"Yeah," Frank ploughed ahead. "Let's jus' push through, alrigh'? An' then everyone's happy," he nodded, almost prompting Matt to do the same. When the blind man didn't, Frank sighed. "Look, I don't give a shit about Daredevil," he said, "bu' Matt Murdock ain't tha' bad a guy."

What. The. Fuck. 

"You know they're the same person," Matt replied, deadpan. 

Frank snorted darkly. "Not to me."

The silence was broken by his phone.  _Text from Foggy,_ it chanted. Frank got there first. 

"'Matt'," he read, "'don't worry about Castle. Medical came back. His blood work showed the Sickness too. Judge ruled he be cleared of charges. But he has to meet with a therapist once a week for the next six months'. Huh." There was a pause. "So I ain't going to jail then."

"Looks that way."

Frank huffed out a laugh, grin almost feral. "See," he nodded, jerking his head to his wrist once more, " _useful_."

Matt felt sick. But nevertheless he didn't disagree. 

And so Frank reintegrated back into his life. 

There were more boundaries this time. There was a clear definition between Matt's belongings and Frank's. There was no pre-dinner banter - in fact there was no banter or fooling around of any kind. They were, as far as anyone might see, acquaintances. Barely that. They exchanged words when they had to. After a few days, Matt returned to work and Frank returned to doing whatever he wanted to. If he came back in the evenings, scent saturated in blood and gunpowder, then that was something that Matt had to deal with. The Punisher didn't make excuses and only snarled at Matt when he brought it up. So Matt, angry and bitter, climbed back into the suit. He made sure to stay out of Frank's way, in fact often staying ahead of the man. There had been more than several occasions where the ex-marine had followed a lead, only to find a warehouse already swarming with police and tied up, unconscious criminals. He'd shouted at Matt for interfering when he'd returned to the flat, swearing colourfully at the  _nerve_ of him. The Devil of Hell's Kitchen, however, replied the same way Frank had, with a simple: "It's none of your fucking business." That had made the man more than furious, in fact he was sure that the soldier might shoot him again. Instead he'd stormed off to a safe house for three days until he began to shake when aiming his rifle, returning with little other than a glare and rooting through Matt's fridge for a beer.

His Soulmate really was a piece of work, Matt thought. Unyielding, stubborn and bull-headed - there were so many words he could use. But everything he said, he cut deep. Every blow tended to be below the belt. No punch was ever pulled. Frank  _punished_ Matt constantly. Repeatedly. For being who he was. Because not even his halfhearted attempt to compartmentalise the situation by separating the lawyer and the vigilante into different people could fully rid him of the torrent of emotions he no doubt felt. There were few hints to the man who had held Matt when he cried, or tenderly cupped his face, or let him rest his feet in his lap. Every hard, cold inch of Frank Castle was a war-torn soldier still fighting. 

Father Lantom said it wasn't Matt's fault. That Frank had to make the journey - the discovery - for himself, and that all Matt could hope to do would be to guide him. But how could it not be? Because even with the pain that Daredevil caused Frank, Matt still pulled on the red suit, strode out onto rooftops and beat down criminals. Because the truth was Daredevil was a part of Matt - a part that he needed. Something that, without, he could barely count himself alive. It gave him purpose, strength, focus. It was something that he'd hoped his Soulmate might understand. Frank understood, he just chose not to care. Frank ripped out his heart, tore it apart, stepped on it, crushed it, fed it to a dog. He was ruthless. He was pain. And he did it all with an icy tone and a flat heartbeat. 

And for the first time, Matt didn't want a Soulmate. He didn't want words. He didn't want that. But he couldn't ignore Frank. And, well, he was selfish. And Frank was Frank. So he'd take what he could get. If that was it, then fine. He could be an acquaintance. He could be a punchbag. He could be the thing that centred Frank's hatred and bitterness. 

But he sure as fuck wasn't going to be anything other than himself. And Frank or no Frank, he was the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. 


	9. partner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you all. I love you all. I love you all. 
> 
> Be safe, be happy and be kind, 
> 
> All the best,  
> -R.

Had anyone told Matt months ago that the Punisher would make a good ally, he would have thought them insane and dropped them off at the nearest hospital so they could get the treatment they so obviously needed. The fact that he had perched on a rooftop clad head to toe in red, Frank by his side, tracking some misled youths back to the warehouse where the Albanians kept most of their product (both of the narcotic and human kind), was more surprising that he cared to admit. After weeks of arguments and screaming at the top of their lungs about what the other did, why they did it, how they did it, there finally came a case they neither could tackle alone. Daredevil, despite all his effort, blood and sweat, couldn't connect the dots and Frank, well Frank had finally realised that killing people didn't actually allow them to lead you to the next piece of the organisation. It was still only by chance, though, that the pair realised they were working on the same investigation into the Albanians. Matt had begun chasing down what was left of the Russians; Frank had butchered his way through a rival gang and found his way to them. It was only on a downtown rooftop that their paths crossed and Frank's fingers twitched, as though reaching for his gun.

"What ya doing here Red?" he spat, rolling his shoulders. 

"They're trafficking girls, Frank," Matt replied. "Some are as young as thirteen," he paused, tone turning scathing. "You going to tell me to go home?"

There was a moment where the lawyer was sure his Soulmate was, but then a half-exhale rattled through his teeth. "No," he bit out. 

And so began the tentative, shaky partnership of The Devil of Hell's Kitchen and The Punisher. It wasn't filled with anything other than arguing - mostly about the methods they wished to use - although marginal compromise had been taken, if only to stop Matt from kicking Frank's guns out of his hand. The ex-marine took kill shots at those he had a true hatred for: child killers, molesters, anyone, really, who hurt children or the particularly vulnerable. He also did it when Matt wasn't there to stop him, but more often than not he was aiming for painful, non-fatal areas. Recently he'd gained a habit of shooting for the spine, shattering the vertebrae and crippling his targets so they were more or less useless to the gangs as runners or hit-men and able to spread fear into the underbelly of New York that the Punisher was at large once more. It was a compromise that Matt wasn't comfortable with, but as it _was_ a compromise, he didn't push the unstable, unspoken deal they had reached. A deal that had not only persisted in the dark, but had somehow migrated into the day, interweaving its way into all aspects of their lives.

It was, perhaps, for that reason that Matt had settled on calling Frank 'partner', rather than Soulmate... at least in his head. It encompassed much of what Frank was to him: someone who shared his home and his space in the light, albeit silently (Matt hadn't yet decided whether he preferred the insults, because at least then Frank was  _speaking_ to him), then sometimes came patrolling with him at night. The non-acceptance was hesitant, the obvious dislike somehow mild and passive, a shift in Frank's approach that only added to the shit-show of emotional turmoil, confusion and ridiculously comical misunderstandings that had become Matt's life. Because at the end of it all, he was in love with his... _partner_...despite everything.  

And when the Albanians were finally taken down - although Matt was nearly one hundred percent sure they didn't get everyone - via three gunfights and a particularly brutal fistfight that had him wheezing for the next two weeks through bruised lungs, another villain took their place. There was always someone, some group, for Matt to defeat, and for Frank to use as target practice. After the Albanians, the Russians grew cocky, re-emerging into Hell's Kitchen like a weed. They were relatively easy though. With no real authority structure, they quickly dispersed in the face of The Punisher and Daredevil. The one that followed, however, was more difficult. Some unknown, deranged psychopath belonging to the Cesare crime family who decided that calling out the Punisher was the smart way to guarantee long-term survival in the Kitchen. He'd been more than just a little surprised when Daredevil appeared too, even with the rumours floating around about their team up, to barely stop him from shooting Frank in the stomach. Matt might not have got involved had the man not desecrated the grave of Frank's ex-wife and children. Soulmate or not, behaviour like that deserved more than just _one_ kick in the teeth from the Devil.

Then, finally, there was **him**. 

The reason they were once again sat on a rooftop, tolerating each other in a way they hadn't been since before Frank found out.

Frank had never mentioned anyone else from his life before The Punisher, but the way he'd inhaled sharply, a choking noise spluttering in his chest and his hand suddenly white-knuckled as he gripped onto the nearby wall too tight told Matt that the man on the other end of his scope - the man gun running up and down the north end of the east coast and shooting people in the face with alarming regularity - was somebody he knew. And knew **well**. It had still taken four days before Frank revealed a name.  _Billy Russo_. A soldier. They served together. Old friend. His words were clipped and laced with a tone that eerily resembled that of Frank's  _"Stop digging, Red_ ," the night Matt spoke his words. He'd not said much else. Matt could hear though, and hear well. It was much _more_ than that. There was something important about Billy Russo, something that spoke of family and longing and a desperate, volatile desire to burn down the world so there'd be nothing left to hurt him.   

But Billy Russo was a criminal. He was a murderer. He was a thief. And even the war raging inside of Frank came to an abrupt end when Russo shot the elderly mother of a man who got too cocky in cold blood.  _To stop anyone else getting ideas_ , he'd said as they dragged the body away, across the concrete floor of the warehouse, the stark red blood smearing against the dark grey. There was no discussion after that. Frank even started calling him  _Russo_ , with a biting venom and dogged determination. Matt ached in places he didn't know he had when that happened, because something told him  _Billy_ had just died, and Frank had lost family yet again. Not that he would talk about it, of course. 

There was a shipment coming in at just before two, according to Frank's source, but it was still only half one and the cold was beginning to seep into Matt's bones. While it stopped a knife, his suit did little to help protect him from the heavy damp of a New York evening in the late autumn. Not to mention the chill rolling off the water from the docks beneath them, washing over the pair with every tide, reminding Matt constantly of how desperately he wanted a coat and a warm blanket. 

"Can ya not stop ya teeth from chattering?" Frank sniped, not looking up from his scope.

"It's. Cold."

"It's. Distracting." Frank replied. 

"You've not complained before."

"Ain't been doing this for long enough for me to complain."

"We've been working together for two and a half months, Frank," Matt snapped.

"Must'a been warmer," he muttered.

"Incredibly, Castle, the seasons change. Nights get colder."

"Maybe if you wore more than jus' ya pyjamas, Red, ya wouldn't get cold."

"Maybe if you didn't insist we were here three hours in advance, I wouldn't have to wait around in 30 degree weather," Matt hissed.

"Fuckin' child," he said, shaking his head a little. The blue eyed man went to reply before pausing. 

"He's here," he whispered, sitting back on his haunches and into a crouch. "There's a SUV," he continued, "with four. There's another six coming on bikes, from the east."

"'Bout fuckin' time," Frank muttered, rolling his shoulders and taking long, slow steady breaths. 

"Stick to the plan, Frank," Matt said, pulling down his mask and hopping from roof and running along until he could jump onto a nearby shipping container. He kept half his attention on those around him, but made sure he could hear the steady  _thump_ of the partner's heart. 

The cars came to an abrupt stop, people piling out, but the time Matt had crept the length of a dozen containers to get a better position. The click of metal and the scent of gunpowder reached Matt's senses. They were armed not for a fight, but to take down an army. A one-man army perhaps. But even if Frank's name had circulated around the Kitchen, it was clear that Billy didn't know just _who_ the Punisher was - or that Frank was the Frank he'd fought with. Surely he'd have been more careful if he knew.

"Hurry up," he barked, slamming the door shut and glancing around with an almost bored look in his eye. "Now!" His minions scattered, each hurrying to fulfil whatever orders they'd been given by their boss. Matt waited, listening closely. He could begin to hear the faint noise from the ship no doubt hauling Russo's cargo. The disturbances in the waves were small, but enough to tell him that Frank's source was more than accurate about the timing. Suddenly, with a burst of adrenaline in his veins, he didn't begrudge Frank's insane need to be three hours early for a stake out. 

He was so focused on the boat, however, that it took Matt a moment to register the familiar hitch of his partner's breath before: _"One batch, two batch, penny and dime."_

Then Frank pulled the trigger. 

What the **fuck** was he _thinking_...?

Even suppressed, the shots still cracked open the sky in the quiet of the New York night. And while the first three of the bikers were down before anyone reacted, suddenly everything was happening at once. 

Diving for cover, Russo and the remainder of his men opened fire, blindly shooting in any direction they felt like, desperate to defend themselves from every angle. Billy's voice was echoing out over the gunfire, directing orders but even hearing their next intentions, Matt was too heavily pinned down by bullets to move, and while Frank was still taking shots at them from his place on the roof, they were too well hidden for him to do enough damage. Not to mention, of course, that every time he pulled the trigger, the flash of the muzzle was like a flare signalling his location. Even scared and confused, it wouldn't take Russo's men - or Russo himself - long to find just where The Punisher was perched. Which meant that Matt had to act. 

The noise was deafening, like hail on a tin roof that had somehow played over a roaring lion. Part of Matt wanted to shut it all out; another part of him wondered how the whole of Manhattan wasn't deafened by the calamity. Bullets ricocheted off the shipping container for what felt like hours but a series of clicks and a pause told Matt they were reloading. He took the chance. Clenching his hands into fists, he flung himself from the container and forward, sprinting quickly across the docks and sticking as close to shadows as he could. The gunfire had struck up again, but he pushed on, finally reaching the first of his gunmen and launching himself forward. The man went down relatively easily, although having his head stuck against the ground by the Devil of Hell's Kitchen encouraged the matter. The second and third, hiding behind an oil barrel, went down just as quickly, leaving only Billy and four others, unless he called for backup that was. 

Frank, clearly watching Matt through his scope, had begun to lay down some cover fire, essentially sacrificing his position in doing so. All attention from the remaining criminals turned to the rooftop, peppering the brickwork with bullets. A palm strike to the chin followed by a knee to the groin and a hammer strike to the back of the head had bad guy number seven dropping to the ground with a groan, before falling instantly silent. With only four left, Matt was beginning to feel strangely optimistic.

A sudden punch to Matt's chest had him falling backwards, stumbling and pitching. His hand threw itself out to catch him but he only succeeded in jarring his wrist. It took him a second to realise that it wasn't an assailant with a fist and a grudge, but rather a bullet that had gathered up his tissue, veins, blood and skin and spat it out on the concrete behind him. 

In a way it was probably some twisted sense of Fate that it was Billy Russo on the other end of the gun, but Matt didn't like to think about that. Not when he tasted blood and bile in the back of his throat and he was stumbling for cover, dragging himself away as Frank shot bullet after bullet and the blurring screams of another dead criminal overlapped with the eager exclamations of Russo, telling the two left that they all should  _get the fuck out of here_ ; then more firing and the smell and burnt rubber and the squeal of tires. 

The world seemed to shudder around him, seconds sliding into minutes, with time becoming mercurial and disconnected. Chaos was opening up its veins and bleeding into the world.

 _Footsteps_.

Matt pressed down on the ragged wound in his chest with a shuddering gasp, his free hand scrambling to find leverage to pull himself up, to defend himself, to do his job, to be what he was. There were hands on him suddenly, then came the smell: gunpowder and coffee...  _Frank._ He clutched on to the ex-marine tightly, fingers wrapping themselves over the top of the Kevlar vest, the other, slick with blood, tangling itself in his coat. 

"I...told you," Matt breathed harshly, brain not really registering the words but somehow determined enough to get them out, "to stick...to...the p-plan." He could feel himself losing consciousness. There was a heavy weight settling on his shoulders, his ears were beginning to ring and a painful burning sensation had struck up on his wrist. "You're-a, a crappy...partner," he slurred, the numbness spreading faster now, chasing down his limbs and seeping into the gaping hole that had carved open his chest. He heaved in what little breath he had, clutching tighter and forcing out the words he'd been holding in for weeks. He was spluttering, choking on blood, but still his lips moved. "An'-a prett' shitty S-Soulmate, t-too."

A sharp inhale.

Then everything went black. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rights where they go, of course. I can't take credit for the magic that is Marvel.  
> -R.


	10. soulmate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read, commented or left kudos on this, you have no idea how amazing it has been to hear your lovely thoughts and have my doubts and anxiety settled about this pair - I am seriously in your debt. 
> 
> This is the last chapter (kinda sad at that myself (and sorry for the late update and for any mistakes))! Honestly, seeing the way the Matt-Frank relationship developed in the TV shows and also in the comics from this enemy to anti-hero, reluctant friend means that I could never really encompass all aspects of these amazing, but incredibly complex, characters (I wish I owned them, but I don't so, all rights where they go, pleases and thank yous), but this is the way the story was always going to finish. Hopefully everyone thinks it's alright (and I hope it ends the way you wanted it to or hoped it might!). 
> 
> Stay cool, stay safe, spread love (not hate), and keep on keeping on,  
> -R.

Anyone who said that relationships didn't need work because they were Soulmates were, Frank thought, full of shit.

Soulmates were hard. Really hard. The very _idea_ of a Soulmate was difficult. A person existing solely to finish your sentences and to slip seamlessly into your life might, for some, be a dream; but for anyone with a sense of independence and an idea of romance that existed outside rom-coms, it was tragically difficult. Then, to actually meet such a person, to be with them, get to know them? It was almost impossible.

At least for Frank.

In the movies it was easy. Falling into each other's arms, a person's other half was perfect and impossibly flawless. They  _saw_ you the way no one else did, and they completed you, filling in the cracks in your soul with gold and joy. They were calm, kind and careful, minding the ragged edges of yourself and smoothing over the boiling anger and fear that simmered beneath your skin. For Frank, he'd thought, once, that he'd want that. He'd want that more than anything else in the world. Selfishly, he'd wanted it when he was in hot, dirty sand, with the  _pop-pop-pop_ of gunfire and the chattering screams of dying soldiers playing like a soundtrack in his ears - despite already having a wife at home. He'd wanted the owner of his words to reach out and fill in what was left, so he could ignore the despairing, volatile panic that gripped him beneath canvas tents, and the bile that claimed his throat when he scrubbed his hands red raw to rid them of blood after killing. He'd wanted it. He wanted it more than Maria. The need had been so overwhelming, he often thought it might choke him out. Sometimes he wished it would. At least then he wouldn't have to stare down a scope and watch shit hit the fan again and again and again as his brothers bled out into dirt and civilians burned in bombed out houses. He wanted his Soulmate, eagerly and with no thought of the ready-made family waiting at home for him.

He'd wanted it right up until he realised his Soulmate would destroy him. 

Because despite that want, he did love his Maria, and a Soulmate would burn through that love like tinder. It would obliterate it, as though it had never been there. And that wasn't fair. It wasn't fair to a woman who was honourable, and good, and didn't hate Frank for screaming himself awake at night. Who helped him through the terrors and never judged him when he curled up in the bathroom, paralysed by fear because his mind told him that only dangers lurked outside. Maria, who smiled, laughed as though on a fair ground ride and held his hand when he'd turned to her, panic-striken, after swerving the car across three lanes to avoid a paper bag he thought might have been an IED.

So he took an oath.

After all, what better way to prove that he truly loved his wife that to swear he would never, ever love another, regardless of the words stitched into his skin and soul?

Then Maria was dead. 

...and Lisa. 

...and Frankie. 

And his head pounded with blood and rage and fear and desperation, and a howling struck up in his ears, driving one foot in front of the other and demanding blood as payment. 

It stopped when he heard them. 

 _The words_. 

"Why didn’t you take my mask off?"

He knew then that the movies weren't just  _wrong_ , they were  **delusional.** Because having a Soulmate was hard. Hard on his heart, hard on his head and hard on the promises he'd given to a woman and their children. 

Because Matt was  _everything_. Matt was justice-incarnate and equality wrapped up in soft lines and charm. He was beautiful and fierce, but strong. And  _fuck_ he was smart - smarter than Frank could ever hope to be - but too humble to ever lord that intelligence over him. He made Frank feel at home, at ease in his own skin in a way he hadn't since before he deployed. For the first time since picking up a gun, Frank Castle had the overwhelming urge to put one down for the final time. And it was all because of Matt. Matt who he was falling in love with so, so  _easily_. Matt who soothed the broken parts of him with kindness and calm. Matt was his centre. Matt was his everything.

Matt, who was ~~not~~ his Soulmate.

Who _was_ his Soulmate. 

Because he wasn't, then he was. And love turned to fear turned to anger turned to rage.

Soulmates were _**hard**_. 

But when his, after months of tentative co-existence, lay bleeding to death in his arms, there wasn't anything other than undiluted and blood-saturating terror. Because Matt could not die. It didn't matter that they were barely speaking, floating around each other in some unspoken truce neither party knew the rules of. Or that months after kissing the man he wanted to spend every waking second of the day with had revealed that he was the one person he couldn't have, Frank still couldn't accept Daredevil as a Soulmate. The only thing that mattered was that Matt couldn't die. Frank would open his own wrists and bleed into the wound if he had to, but the blue-eyed man was not dying in Frank's arms. He would save him. He  _had_ to. 

In the end, though, it wasn't Frank that saved Matt. 

It took a single phone call and then she was there:  _Claire_. 

She was calm, but the shake in her hands spoke volumes of her concern. Eventually, after doing as best as she could, they redressed Matt, Frank changed, and they raced to the hospital. Sixteen hours, several berating, furiously whispered lectures from Foggy and two tearful breakdowns from Karen later, they finally piled into the lawyer's room, watching monitors beep and Matt's heavily bandaged chest rise and fall sluggishly.

It was then, staring at the smudged taupe walls of that shit-smelling place, that Frank had the thought. A single thought that slotted everything into place. That he might be in love with Matt Murdock, but he would burn down the world to save the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, because he loved him too.

Frank loved  _every part of him_.

Which meant he loved Daredevil: his _Soulmate_. Because Daredevil was a part of Matt - an embodiment of the furious morality and strong sense of justice that Frank adored - and no denial would change that. Daredevil was a part of Matt the same way the Punisher was a part of him. And how could anyone who wouldn't kill be responsible for death? How could his alter-boy, who helped old women cross the street and let the vulnerable pay him in pineapples and prayers ever be held accountable for his family? How could Matt, who was still by his side despite everything, be anything other than the purest soul there was? 

And how had Frank allowed himself to be so cruel?

He was a monster. He had been monstrous. Fear and panic aside, he was heartless and demonic. 

He'd been... a  devil.

There was a movement to his right. Foggy and Karen, passed out in their respective chairs, didn't stir, but a slow groan and shift and his eyes turned to the bed-bound patient. Frank reached out, taking Matt's hand and laced their fingers together with little fanfare. Even drugged, confused and half asleep, the surprised jolt followed by the sudden stare to the side of Frank's head told him that the lawyer not only knew just who was holding his hand, but was more than just a little taken aback my the action. 

"It ain't your fault, Red," he began gently, squeezing the fingers just tight enough to convey his point. "It never was. And it weren't right for me to say it was," he continued. The ex-marine took in a long breath. "It would'a been crueller to send ya my way when Maria and the kids were still alive. Especially 'cos I know I'd-a picked you in a heartbeat."

"Frank -"

"I owe ya an explanation, I know. And ya right, I was shitty. Real shitty. But I gotta try an' tell ya why," he took a long, deep, steadying breath. "Ya know, when Daredevil said ma words, it all made sense. It made sense that this was the one for me, because who else could understand something this broken? Who else could accept a crappy soldier whose too good at killing? But, shit, Red, it hurt. Cos I loved my Maria, and well, she never got me. She never  _made sense_. But I figured it didn't matter, because I loved her, and I told myself that no matter what happened, I weren't ever gonna love my Soulmate, because that would make what I felt for Maria like puppy love, right? So I blamed the Devil for what he could be - what he could do by makin' me forget about ma wife, ma kids - and that the man upstairs likes fuckin' with people," he paused, inhaling deeply. "Then I meet this blind punk who stitches me up and meets me quip for quip, who don't take any of ma shit, but still lets me be me. It doesn't matter who I am, or what I done. I'm still trusted to get milk, or clean the fucking bathroom. And I get days into it and I think,  _fuck_ , I ain't even _thought_ about criminals. I ain't thought about war. And inside I'm panicking, because you made me breathe a little easier, but ya weren't ma Soulmate, so I figured, shit, I got a second chance here. I got a second chance with someone who didn't make sense, but still felt like home, right?" He stopped again, dropping his gaze. "When you told me about Daredevil, I was so angry, Red, but not because you lied. I know why you lied. But because suddenly you made sense. Suddenly I realised tha' you were like me, right? A soldier. But you were also a man, who wanted a life away from the war, and who hadn't really found it. And when you made sense, I realised that while I hadn't thought about criminals, I hadn't really thought about Maria, either. The kids, yeah, but not Maria. And then I realised that what I had with Maria couldn't touch what I could have with you, something that ran deeper than passion and all that shit. An' it scared me. It scared me 'cos I can't have another family just t' lose 'em and hell, the Devil's practically askin' to be lost. I was scared because I didn't want to love anyone more than Maria, I didn't wanna betray her like that...and I realised I already had. I didn't wanna do it, to love someone more than her, but I already did. An' so I punished myself, an' I punished you. Tried to pretend tha' I didn't have the feelings, that it wasn't important, and I could choose to feel." His eyes were suspiciously damp and he took a moment to recompose himself, throat suddenly incredibly thick. He didn't want to bawl in front of Matt, but something told him he might not be able to avoid it. "But I didn't realise that jus' cos I love someone else, don't mean that what I had with her is gone. It's always gonna be there, _always_." He paused again, swallowing. "You're a good man, Red," he stated. "You are," he insisted before turning a little to meet the gaze searching his face imploringly. "And ya don't deserve a bad one as ya Soulmate."

A crease settled between Matt's eyes. "You're not  _bad_ Frank," he replied softly, his own eyes wet.

The Punisher chuckled wryly, shaking his head. "Sure, Red," he smiled, gripping the hand beside him even tighter, as though afraid Matt would wrench it back at any moment. "I know I got a lot to make up for, Red," he began, "an' hell ya might not even want me to try. I'd sure as shit tell someone like me to take a hike. But I wanna try. I wanna start over. And unless ya tell me to go, 'm gonna be here, _always_. Cos I may be a shitty person, but I ain't never lied about... _feelings_. I'm six-ways broken, Blue, and ya deserve better, but shit I ain't got a name for the way I love you."

The slow, hesitant smile that stretched across Matt's features - his Soulmate's features - was glorious. It was radiance, and joy, and a tentative, hopeful eagerness that the soldier wanted to lose himself in. For the first time in a long, time, there was something filling his chest that had nothing to do with rage or bitterness, no hatred, spite or even loss. For the first time, the red haze that enveloped him wasn't fury, it was a soft, orange-pink-red sunset. And as cheesy as it sounded, Red, _his Red,_ was the only colour he wanted for the rest of his days (although he wouldn't say no to some Blue every now and again).

He'd been more than just a little wrong. He'd be too twisted and wrapped in the self-hatred and fear that had driven his actions as a one-man army, he forgot that Frank had been destined for something more. He missed his family, and he always would, but he had a new family now. A family that saw the ugly, dirty parts of him, and still embraced him lovingly. That stood by him even when every part of them disagreed. That still let them share meals, even after screaming for hours until their voices went hoarse. Who, even after ranting on the morality of killing, allowed Frank to stack his guns in the closet. Who still made him tea when he came home covered in blood. If that wasn't what a Soulmate really was, Frank didn't have a clue how to define it. 

Maybe he wasn't supposed to. 

But when that grin began to shape words, he realised that, in the end, it didn't matter. Because Matt slowly reached out his free hand and said: "Hello, 'm Matthew Murdock. It's nice to meet you."

"Frank Castle," he replied softly, accepting the hand, shocked that such a man would willingly offer to start over. "I hear ya ma Soulmate."

Matt huffed out a weak laugh, tightening his grip just a fraction. "Who knows?" he smiled. "I prefer to let things take their natural course." 

Frank huffed out a laugh. "Ya the best thing that could'a happened to a broken thing like me, Red, an' I'm gonna make sure I spend every day makin' it up to ya, makin' sure ya know it."

A pause. "I like lasagne."

Then Matt smiled brightly and Frank grinned carelessly in reply, finally,  _finally,_ coming  **home**.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also, kinda shameless, but remember: #vote tomorrow (Nov 6th) x
> 
> love to you all, be the best you you can be, and thank you thank you thank you,  
> -R.


End file.
